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THE DOLLY DIA- 
LOGUES and COME^ 
DIES OF COURTSHIP 


By ANTHONY HOPE 
ILLUSTRATED 



D. APPLETON AND COMPANY -y 
NEW YORK 





T2. 3 

6 


THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Recelveel 

OCT 3 T903 


Copyright Entry 

/<<?!- 

CUSS ^ XXo. No 

U-Cf } X » 

COPY A. 


Copyright, 1902, by 

ANTHONY HOPE HAWKINS 


All rights reserved 



The Dolly Dialogues 
Copyright, 1901, by 
Robert Howard Russell 


Comedies of Courtship 
Copyright, 1895, by 
Charles Scribner’s Sons 
Copyright, 1894, 1896, by 
Anthony Hope 


CONTENTS 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 

CHAPnSR 

I. A Liberal Education . . . , 1 

II. Cordial Relations 7 

III. Retribution I4 

IV. The Perverseness of It . . , .21 

V. A Matter of Duty . . , . ,28 

VI. My Last Chance . . , , .36 

VII. The Little Wretch ! . , , .43 

VIII. An Expensive Privilege . , , .50 

IX. A Very Dull Affair . . . .57 

X. Strange but True . . • , .65 

XI. The Very Latest Thing , • . .73 

XII. An Uncounted Hour . . . .80 

XIII. A Reminiscence. 87 

XIV. A Fine Day 95 

XV. The House Opposite . » . , .100 

XVI. A Quick Change 107 

XVH. A Slight Mistake . . . . .114 

XVIH. The Other Lady ..... 121 
XIX. What Might Have Been • , .128 

XX. One Way In 136 


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CONTENTS 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 
The Wheel of Love 


CHAPTER PAGE 


I. 

The Virtuous Hypocrites . 



. 1 

II. 

Sympathy in Sorrow . 



. 10 

III. 

A Providential Disclosure . 



. 20 

IV. 

The Tale of a Postmark . 



. 30 

V. 

A Second Edition 



. 39 

VI. 

A Man with a Theory 



. 48 

VII. 

The Sights of Avignon 



. 56 

VIII. 

Mr. and Mrs. Ashforth (1) 



. 66 

IX. 

Mr. and Mrs. Ashforth (2) 



. 74 

X. 

Mr. and not Mrs. Ashforth 



. 83 

XI. 

A D 3 mamite Outrage 



. 92 

XII. 

Another ! . 



. 100 

XIII. 

Faithful to Death 



, 109 


The Lady of the Pool 

CHAPTER 

I. A Firm Believer 115 

II. Miss Wallace’s Friend . . . .124 

III. All Nonsense . . • . . .134 

vii 


CONTENTS 


CHAFTEB PAQS 

IV. A Catastrophe at the Pool . . .144 

V. An Unforeseen Case . . . . .157 

VI. There Was Somebody . . . .168 

VII. The Inevitable Meeting . . . .178 

VIIL The Moral of It . . . « . 187 

IX. Two Men of Spirit . . . . .196 

X. The Incarnation of Lady Agatha . . 204 } 

The Philosopher in the Apple Orchard . .213 

The Curate of Poltons ..... 227 
A Three- Volume Novel . . . . .251 

The Decree of Duke Deodonato . . . . 269 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 




THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


I 

A LIBERAL EDUCATION 

‘‘ There’s ingratitude for you ! ” Miss Dolly Foster 
exclaimed suddenly. 

“ Where ? ” I asked, rousing myself from medi- 
tation. 

She pointed at a young man who had just passed 
where we sat. He was dressed very smartly, and 
was walking with a lady attired in the height of the 
fashion. 

‘‘I made that man,” said Dolly, “and now he 
cuts me dead before the whole of the Row ! It’s 
atrocious. Why, but for me, do you suppose he’d 
be at this moment engaged to three thousand a 
year and — and the plainest girl in London ? ” 

“ Not that,” I pleaded ; “think of ” 

“ Well, very plain’ anyhow. I was quite ready 
to bow to him. I almost did.” 

“ In fact you did ? ” 

“ I didn’t. I declare I didn’t.” 

Oh, well, you didn’t then. It only looked like 
it.” 

“ I met him,” said Miss Dolly, “ three years ago. 
At that time he was — oh, quite unpresentable. 

1 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


He was everything he shouldn’t be. He was a tee- 
totaler, you know, and he didn’t smoke, and he was 
always going to concerts. Oh, and he wore his 
hair long, and his trousers short, and his hat on the 

back of his head. And his umbrella ” 

“Where did he wear that ? ” 

“He carried that, Mr. Carter. Don’t be silly! 
Carried it unrolled, you know, and generally a paper 
parcel in the other hand ; and he had spectacles 
too.” 

“ He has certainly changed outwardly at least.” 

“ Yes, I know ; well, I did that. I took him in 

hand, and I just taught him, and now ! ” 

“ Yes, I know that. But how did you teach him ? 
Give him Saturday evening lectures, or what ? ” 
“Oh, every-evening lectures, and most-morning 
walks. And I taught him to dance, and I broke 
his wretched fiddle with my own hands ! ” 

“ What very arbitrary distinctions you draw ! ” 

“ I don’t know what you mean. I do like a man 
to be smart, anyhow. Don’t you, Mr. Carter? 
You’re not so smart as you might be. Now, shall 
I take you in hand ? ” And she smiled upon me. 

‘ ‘ Let’s hear your method. What did you do to 
him ? ” 

“ To Phil Meadows ? Oh, nothing. I just 
slipped in a remark here and there, whenever he 
talked nonsense. I used to speak just at the right 
time, you know.” 

“ But how had your words such influence. Miss 
Foster ? ” 


2 


A LIBERAL EDUCATION 

“ Oh, well, you know, Mr. Carter, I make it a 
condition that he should do just what I wanted in 
little things like that. Did he think I was going to 
walk about with a man carrying a brown-paper 
parcel — as if we had been to the shop for a pound 
of tea?” 

Still, I don’t see why he should alter all his ” 

‘‘ Oh, you are stupid ! Of course, he liked me, 
you know.” 

“ Oh, did he ? I see.” 

“You seem to think that very funny.” 

“Not that he did — but that, apparently, he 
doesn’t.” 

“Well, you got out of that rather neatly — for 
you. No, he doesn’t now. You see, he misunder- 
stood my motive. He thought — well, I do believe 
he thought I cared for him, you know. Of course 
I didn’t.” 

“ Not a bit ? ” 

“Just as a friend — and a pupil, you know. And 
when he’d had his hair cut and bought a frock-coat 
(fancy ! he’d never had one !), he looked quite nice. 
He has nice eyes. Did you notice them ? ” 

“ Lord, no ! ” 

“Well, you’re so unobservant.” 

“ Oh, not always. I’ve observed that your ” 

“ Please don’t ! It’s no use, is it ? ” 

I looked very unhappy. There is an understand- 
ing that I am very unhappy since Miss Foster’s en- 
gagement to the Earl of Mickleham was announced. 

“ What was I saying before — before you — you 
3 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 

know — oh, about Phil Meadows, of course. I did 
like him very much, you know, or I shouldn’t have 
taken all that trouble. Why, his own mother 
thanked me ! ” 

I have no more to say,” said I. 

“ But she wrote me a horrid letter afterwards.” 

“ You’re so very elliptical.” 

“ So very what, Mr. Carter ? ” 

“ You leave so much out, I mean. After what ? ” 

“ Why, after I sent him away. Didn’t I tell 
you ? Oh, we had the most awful scene. He 
raved, Mr. Carter. He called me the most horrid 
names, and ” 

“ Tore his hair? ” 

“ It wasn’t long enough to get hold of,” she tit- 
tered. ‘‘ But don’t laugh. It was really dreadful. 
And so unjust ! And then, next day, when I 
thought it was comfortably over, you know, he 
came back, and — and apologised, and called him- 
self the most awful names, and — well, that was 
really worse.” 

“ What did the fellow complain of ? ” I asked in 
wondering tones. 

“Oh, he said I’d destroyed his faith in women, 
you know, and that I’d led him on, and that I was 
— ^well, he was very rude indeed. And he went 
on writing me letters like that for a whole year ! It 
made me quite uncomfortable.” 

“ But he didn’t go back to short trousers and a 
fiddle, did he ? ” I asked anxiously. 

“ Oh, no. But he forgot all he owed me, and he 
4 


A LIBERAL EDUCATION 


told me that his heart was dead, and that he should 
never love any one again.” 

“ But he’s going to marry that girl.” 

“ Oh, he doesn’t care about her,” said Miss Dolly 
reassuringly. “ It’s the money, you know. He 
hadn’t a farthing of his own. Now he’ll be set up 
for life.” 

“ And it’s all due to you ! ” said I admiringly. 

“ Well, it is, really.” 

“ I don’t call her such a bad-looking girl, though.” 
(I hadn’t seen her face.) 

“ Mr. Carter ! She’s hideous I ” 

I dropped that subject. 

“ And now,” said Miss Dolly again, ‘‘ he cuts me 
dead! ” 

“ It is the height of ingratitude. Why, to love 
you was a liberal education ! ” 

‘‘ Yes, wasn’t it? How nicely you put that. ‘ A 
liberal education! ’ I shall tell Archie ” (Archie is 
Lord Mickleham). 

“ What, about Phil Meadows? ” 

‘‘ Goodness me, no, Mr. Carter. Just what you 
said, you know.” 

‘‘ But why not tell Mickleham about Phil 
Meadows ? ” I urged. ‘‘ It’s all to your credit, you 
know.” 

“ Yes, I know, but men are so foolish. You see, 
Archie thinks ” 

‘‘ Of course he does.” 

“ You might let me finish.” 

“ Archie thinks you were never in love before.” 

5 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ Yes, he does. Well, of course, I wasn’t in love 

with Phil ” 

“ Not a little bit? ” 

“ Oh, well ” 

“ Nor with any one else ? ” 

Miss Dolly prodded the path with her parasol. 
“Nor with any one else? ” I asked again. 

Miss Dolly looked for an instant in my direc- 
tion. 

“ Nor with any one else ? ” said I. 

Miss Dolly looked straight in front of her. 

“ Nor with — ” I began. 

“ Hullo, old chappie, where did you spring 
from ? ” 

“ Why, Archie ! ” cried Miss Dolly. 

“ Oh, how are you, Mickleham, old man? Take 
this seat; I’m just off— just off. Yes, I was, upon 
my honour — got to meet a man at the club. Good- 
bye, Miss Foster. Jove! I’m late! ” 

And as I went I heard Miss Dolly say, “I 
thought you were never coming, Archie, dear!” 
Well, she didn’t think he was coming just then. 
No more did I. 


6 


II 


CORDIAL RELATIONS 

The other day I paid a call on Miss Dolly Foster 
for the purpose of presenting to her my small offer- 
ing on the occasion of her marriage to Lord Mick- 
leham. It was a pretty little bit of jewellery— a 
pearl heart, broken (rubies played the part of 
blood) and held together by a gold pin, set with 
diamonds, the whole surmounted by an earl’s coro- 
net. I had taken some trouble about it, and I was 
grateful when Miss Dolly asked me to explain the 
symbolism. 

“ It is my heart,” I observed. “ The fracture is 

of your making: the pin ” 

Here Miss Dolly interrupted: to tell the truth I 
was not sorry, for I was fairly gravelled for the 
meaning of the pin. 

^ “ What nonsense, Mr. Carter ! ” said she ; “ but 
its awfully pretty. Thanks, so very, very much. 
Aren’t relations funny people ? ” 

“If you wish to change the subject, pray do,” 
said I. “I’ll change anything except my affec- 
tions.” 

“ Look here,” she pursued, holding out a bundle 
of letters. “ Here are the congratulatory epistles 
from relations. Shall I read you a few? ” 

7 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ It will be a most agreeable mode of passing the 
time,” said I. 

“ This is from Aunt Georgiana — she’s a widow — 
lives at Cheltenham. ‘ My dearest Dorothea ’ ” 

“ Who? ” 

“Dorothea’s my name, Mr. Carter. It means 
the gift of heaven, you know.” 

“Precisely. Pray proceed. Miss Dolly. I did 
not at first recognise you.” 

“ ‘ My dearest Dorothea, I have heard the news 
of your engagement to Lord Mickleham with deep 
thankfulness. To obtain the love of an honest man 
is a great prize. I hope you will prove worthy of 
it. Marriage is a trial and an opportunity ’ ” 

“ Hear, hear ! ” said I. “ A trial for the hus- 
band and ” 

“ Be quiet, Mr. Carter. ‘ A trial and an oppor- 
tunity. It searches the heart and it affords a. 
sphere of usefulness which — ’ So she goes on, 
you know. I don’t see why I need be lectured 
just because I’m going to be married, do you, Mr. 
Carter ? ” 

“Let’s try another,” said I. “Who’s that on 
pink paper ? ” 

“ Oh, that’s Georgy Vane. She’s awful fun. 

‘ Dear old DoUy, — So you’ve brought it off. 
Hearty congrats. I thought you were going to be 
silly and throw away — ’ There’s nothing else there, 
Mr. Carter. Look here. Listen to this. It’s from 
Uncle William. He’s a clergyman, you know. 

‘ My dear Niece, — I have heard with great gratifi- 


CORDIAL RELATIONS 


cation of your engagement. Your aunt and I 
unite in all good wishes. I recollect Lord Mickle- 
ham’s father when I held a curacy near Worcester. 
He was a regular attendant at church and a sup- 
porter of all good works in the diocese. If only his 
son takes after him’ (fancy Archie!) ‘ you have se- 
cured a prize. I hope you have a proper sense of 
the responsibilities you are undertaking. Mar- 
riage affords no small opportunities ; it also entails 
certain trials ’ ” 

“ Why, you’re reading Aunt Georgiana again.” 

‘‘ Am I ? No, it’s Uncle William.” 

“ Then let’s try a fresh cast — unless you’ll finish 
Georgy Vane’s.” 

“ W ell, here’s Cousin Susan’s. She’s an old 
maid, you know. It’s very long. Here’s a bit; 
‘Woman has it in her power to exercise a sacred 
influence. I have not the pleasure of knowing 
Lord Mickleham, but I hope, my dear, that you 
will use your power over him for good. It is use- 
less for me to deny that when you stayed with me, 
I thought you were addicted to frivolity. Doubt- 
less marriage wiU sober you. Try to make a good 
use of its lessons. I am sending you a biscuit- 
tin ’ — and so on.” 

“ A very proper letter,” said I. 

Miss Dolly indulged in a slight grimace, and took 
up another letter. 

“ This,” she said, “ is from my sister-in-law, Mrs. 
Algernon Foster.” 

“ A daughter of Lord Doldrums, wasn’t she ? ” 

2 9 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ Yes. ‘ My dear Dorothea — I have heard your 
news. I do hope it will turn out happily. I be- 
lieve that any woman who conscientiously does her 
duty can find happiness in married life. Her hus- 
band and children occupy all her time and all her 
thoughts, and if she can look for few of the lighter 
pleasures of life, she has at least the knowledge that 
she is of use in the world. Please accept the ac- 
companying volumes ’ (its JBrowning) ‘ as a small — ’ 
I say, Mr. Carter, do you think it’s really like 
that? ” 

“ There is still time to draw back,” I observed. 

‘‘ Oh, don’t be silly. Here, this is my brother 
Tom s. ‘ Dear Dol, — I thought Mickleham rather 
an ass when I met him, but I dare say you know 
best. W^hat s his place like ? Does he take a 
moor ? I thought I read that he kept a yacht. 
Does he ? Give him my love and a kiss. Good 
luck, old girl. Tom. P.S. — I’m glad it’s not me, 
you know.’ ” 

“ A disgusting letter,” I observed. 

“ Not at all, said Miss Dolly, dimpling. “ It’s 
just like dear old Tom. Listen to grandpapa’s. 

‘ My dear Granddaughter, — The alliance (I rather 
like its being called an alliance, Mr. Carter. It 
sounds like the Royal Family, doesn’t it ?) you are 
about to contract is in all respects a suitable one. 

I send you my blessing, and a small check to help 
towards your trousseau. — Yours affectionately, Jno. 
Wm. Foster.’ ” 

“ That, said I, ‘‘ is the best up to now.” 

10 


CORDIAL RELATIONS 

Yes, it s 500, said she, sniilins’. Kerens old 
Lady M. s.” 

“ Whose V'" I exclaimed. 

“Archie’s mother,” you know. ‘My dear 

Dorothea (as I suppose I must call you now) 

Archibald has informed us of his engagement, and 
I and the girls (there are five girls, Mr. Carter) 
hasten to welcome his bride. I am sure Archie 
will make his wife very happy. He is rather par- 
ticular (like his dear father), but he has a good 
heart, and is not fidgety about his meals. Of 
course we shall be delighted to move out of The 
Towers at once. I hope we shall see a great deal 
of you soon. Archie is full of your praises, and we 
thoroughly trust his taste. Archie—’ It’s all 
about Archie, you see.” 

“ Naturally,” said I. 

“Well, I don’t know. I suppose I count 
a little, too. Oh, look here. Here’s Cousin 
Fred’s — but he’s always so siUy. I sha’n’t read you 
his.” 

“ Oh, just a bit of it,” I pleaded. 

“Well, here’s one bit. ‘ I suppose I can’t mur- 
der him, so I must wish him joy. All I can say 
is, Dolly, that he’s the luckiest (something I can’t 
read — either fellow or — devil) I ever heard of. I 
wonder if you’ve forgotten that evening ’ ” 

“ Well, go on.” For she stopped. 

“ Oh, there’s nothing else.” 

“ In fact, you have forgotten the evening ? ” 

“Entirely,” said Miss Dolly, tossing her head. 

11 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


‘‘ But he sends me a love of a bracelet. He can’t 
possibly pay for it, poor boy.” 

“ Young knave ! ” said I severely. (I had paid 
for my pearl heart.) 

Then come a lot from girls. Oh, there’s one 
from Maud Tottenham— she’s a second cousin, you 
know — it’s rather amusing. ‘ I used to know your 
fiance slightly. He seemed very nice, but it’s a 
long while ago, and I never saw much of him. I 
hope he is really fond of you, and that it is not a 
mexe fancy. Since you love him so much, it would 
be a pity if he did not care deeply for you.’ ” 

“ Interpret, Miss Dolly,” said 1. 

“She tried to catch him herself,” said Miss 
Dolly. 

“ Ah, I see. Is that all ? ” 

“ The others aren’t very interesting.” 

“ Then let’s finish Georgy Vane’s.” 

“ Beally ? ” she asked, smihng. 

“Yes. Really.” 

“ Oh, if you don’t mind, I don’t,” said she, laugh- 
ing, and she hunted out the pink note and spread 
it before her. “ Let me see. Where was I ? Oh, 
here. ‘ I thought you were going to be silly and 
throw away your chances on some of the men who 
used to flirt with you. Archie Mickleham may 
not be a genius, but he’s a good fellow and a swell 
and rich ; he’s not a pauper, like Phil Meadows, or 
a snob, like Charhe Dawson, or’ — shall I go on, 
Mr. Carter ? No, I won’t. I didn’t see what it 


was. 


12 


CORDIAL RELATIONS 

“ Yes, you shall go on.” 

‘‘ Oh, no, I can’t,” and she folded up the letter. 

“Then I will,” and I’m ashamed to say I snatched 
the letter. Miss Dolly jumped to her feet. I fled 
behind the table. She ran round. I dodged. 

“ ‘ Or — ’ ” I began to read. 

“ Stop ! ” cried she. 

“ ‘ Or a young spendthrift like that man — I for- 
get his name — whom you used to go on with at 
such a pace at Monte Carlo last winter.’ ” 

“ Stop ! ” she cried, stamping her foot. I read 
on: 

“ ‘No doubt he was charming, my dear, and no 
doubt anybody would have thought you meant it ; 
but I never doubted you. Still, weren’t you just 
a little ’ ” 

“ Stop! ” she cried. “You must stop, Mr. Car- 
ter.” 

So then I stopped. I folded the letter and 
handed it back to her. Her cheeks flushed red as 
she took it. 

“ I thought you were a gentleman,” said she, 
biting her hp. 

“ I was at Monte Carlo last winter myself,” 
said I. 

“ Lord Mickleham,” said the butler, throwing 
open the door. 


13 


Ill 


RETRIBUTION 

In future I am going to be careful what I do. I 
am also — and this is by no means less important — 
going to be very careful what Miss Dolly Foster 
does. Everybody knows (if I may quote her par- 
ticular friend Nellie Phaeton) that dear Dolly 
means no harm, but she is “just a little harum- 
scarum.” I thanked Miss Phaeton for the expres- 
sion. 

The fact is that “ old Lady M.” (here I quote 
Miss Dolly) sent for me the other day. I have not 
the honour of knowing the Countess, and I went in 
some trepidation. When I was ushered in. Lady 
Mickleham put up her “starers.” (You know those 
abominations ! Pince-nez with long torture — I 
mean tortoise — shell handles.) 

“ Mr. — er — Carter ? ” said she. 

I bowed. I would have denied it if I could. 

“ My dears ! ” said Lady Mickleham. 

Upon this five young ladies who had been sitting 
in five straight-backed chairs, doing five pieces of 
embroidery, rose, bowed, and filed out of the room. 
I felt very nervous. A pause followed. Then the 
Countess observed — and it seemed at first rather 
irrelevant — 

“ I’ve been reading an unpleasant story.” 

14 


RETRIBUTION 


“In these days of French influence,” I began 
apologetically (not that I write such stories, or in- 
deed any stories, but Lady Mickleham invites an 
apologetic attitude), and my eye wandered to ' the 
table. I saw nothing worse (or better) than the 
morning paper there. 

“ Contained in a friend’s letter,” she continued, 
focussing the “ starers ” full on my face. 

I did not know what to do, so I bowed again. 

“ It must have been as painful for her to write as 
for me to read,” Lady Mickleham went on. “ And 
that is saying much. Be seated, pray.” 

I bowed, and sat down in one of the straight- 
backed chairs. I also began, in my fright, to play 
with one of the pieces of embroidery. 

“ Is Lady Jane’s work in your way ? ” (Lady Jane 
is named after Jane, the famous Countess, Lady- 
in- Waiting to Caroline of Anspach.) 

I dropped the embroidery, and put my foot on 
my hat. 

“ I believe, Mr. Carter, that you are acquainted 
with Miss Dorothea Foster ? ” 

“ I have that pleasure,” said I. 

“Who is about to be married to my son, the 
Earl of Mickleham ? ” 

“ That, I believe, is so,” said I. I was beginning 
to pull myself together. 

“ My son, Mr. Carter, is of a simple and trusting 
disposition. Perhaps I had better come to the 
point. I am informed by this letter that, in con- 
versation with the writer the other day, Archibald 
15 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


mentioned, quite incidentally, some very startling 
facts. Those facts concern you, Mr. Carter.” 

‘‘ May I ask the name of the writer ? ” 

‘‘I do not think that is necessary,” said she. 
“ She is a lady in whom I have the utmost confi- 
dence.” 

“ That is, of course, enough,” said I. 

“ It appears, Mr. Carter — and you will excuse me 
if I speak plainly — (I set my teeth) that you have, 
in the first place, given to my son’s bride a wedding 
present, which I can only describe as ” 

“ A pearl ornament,” I interposed; “ with a ruby 
or two, and ” 

“ A pearl heart,” she corrected ; “ er — fractured, 
and that you explained that this absurd article rep- 
resented your heart.” 

‘‘ Mere badinage^' said I. 

“ In execrably bad taste,” said she. 

I bowed. 

“ In fact, most offensive. But that is not the 
worst. From my son’s further statements it appears 
that on one occasion, at least, he found you and 
Miss Foster engaged in what I can only call ” 

I raised my hand in protest. The Countess took 
no notice. 

‘‘ What I can only call romping'' 

She shot this word at me with extraordinary vio- 
lence, and when it was out she shuddered. 

“ Romping ! ” I cried. 

‘‘ A thing not only atrociously vulgar at all times, 
but under the circumstances — need I say more ? Mr. 

16 


RETRIBUTION 


Carter, you were engaged in chasing my son’s 
future bride round a table ! ” 

“Pardon me, Lady Mickleham. Your son’s 
future bride was engaged in chasing me round a 
table.” 

“ It is the same thing,” said Lady Mickleham. 

“ I should have thought there was a distinction,” 
said I. 

“ None at all.” 

I fell back on a second line of defence. 

“ I didn’t let her catch me, Lady Mickleham,” I 
pleaded. 

Lady Mickleham grew quite red. This made 
me feel more at my ease. 

“ No, sir. If you had ” 

“ Goodness knows ! ” I murmured, shaking my 
head. 

“As it happened, however, my son entered in 
the middle of this disgraceful ” 

“ It was at the beginning,” said I, with a regret- 
ful sigh. 

Upon this — and I have really never been so 
pleased at anything in all my life — ^the Countess, 
the violence of her emotions penetrating to her 
very fingers, gripped the handle of her “ starers ’* 
with such force that she broke it in two ! She was 
a woman of the world, and in a moment she looked 
as if nothing had happened. With me it was dif- 
ferent; and that I am not now on Lady Mickle- 
ham’s visiting-list is due to {inter alia et enormia) the 
fact that I laughed ! It was out before I could 
17 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


help it. In a second I was as grave as a mute. The 
mischief was done. The Countess rose. I imi- 
tated her example. 

“ You are amused ? ” said she, and her tones 
banished the last of my mirth. I stumbled on my 
hat, and it rolled to her feet. 

“ It is not probable,” she observed, ‘‘ that after 
Miss Fosters marriage you will meet her often. 
You will move in — er — somewhat different cir- 
cles.” 

“ I may catch a glimpse of her in her carriage 
from the top of my ’bus,” said I. 

“Your milieu and my son’s ” 

“ I know his valet, though,” said I. 

Lady Mickleham rang the bell. I stooped for 
my hat. To tell the truth I was rather afraid to 
expose myself in such a defenceless attitude, but 
the Countess preserved her self-control. The butler 
opened the door. I bowed, and left the Countess 
regarding me through the maimed “starers.” 
Then I found the butler smiling. He probably 
knew the signs of the weather. I wouldn’t be 
Lady Mickleham’s butler if you made me a duke. 

As I walked home through the Park I met Miss 
Dolly and Mickleham. They stopped. I walked 
on. Mickleham seized me by the coat-tails. 

“ Do you mean to cut us ? ” he cried. 

“Yes,” said I. 

“ Why, what the deuce — ? ” he began. 

“ I’ve seen your mother,” said I. “ I wish, 
Mickleham, that when you do happen to intrude 
18 


RETRIBUTION 


as you did the other day, you wouldn’t repeat what 
you see.” 

“ Lord ! ” he cried. ‘‘ She’s not heard of that ? I 
only told Aunt Cynthia.” 

I said something about Aunt Cynthia. 

“Does — does she know it all?'" asked Miss 
Dolly. 

“ More than all — much more.” 

“ Didn’t you smooth it over ? ” said Miss Dolly 
reproachfully. 

“ On reflection,” said I, “ I don’t know that I 
did — much.” (I hadn’t, you know.) 

Suddenly Mickleham burst out laughing. 

“ What a game ! ” he exclaimed. 

“ That’s all very well for you,” said Dolly. “ But 
do you happen to remember that we dine there 
to-night ? ” 

Archie grew grave. 

“ I hope you’ll enjoy yourselves,” said I. “ I 
always cling to the belief that the wricked are pun- 
ished.” And I looked at Miss Dolly. 

“Never you mind, little woman,” said Archie, 
drawing Miss Dolly’s arm through his. “ I’ll see 
you through. After all, everybody knows that old 
Carter’s an ass.” 

That piece of universal knowledge may help 
matters, but I do not quite see how. I walked on, 
for Miss Dolly had quite forgotten me, and was 
looking up at Archie Mickleham like — well, hang 
it, in the way they do, you know. So I just 
walked on. 


19 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 

I believe Miss Dolly has got a husband who is 
(let us say) good enough for her. And, for one 
reason and another, I am glad of it. And I also 
believe that she knows it. And I am — I suppose 
—glad of that too. Oh, yes, of course I am. Of 
course. 


20 


IV 


THE PERVERSENESS OF IT 

“ I TELL you what, Mr. Carter,” said Miss Nellie 
Phaeton, touching up Rhino with her whip, “ love 
in a cottage is ” 

“ Lord forgive us, cinders, ashes, dust,” I quoted. 

We were spanking round the Park behind Ready 
and Rhino. Miss Phaeton’s horses are very large; 
her groom is very small, and her courage is indom- 
itable. I am no great hand at driving myself, and 
I am not always quite comfortable. Moreover, 
the stricter part of my acquaintance consider, I 
believe, that Miss Phaeton’s attentions to me are 
somewhat pronounced, and that I ought not to 
drive with her in the Park. 

“You’re right,” she went on. “What a girl 
wants is a good house and lots of cash, and some 
ridin’ and a little huntin’ and ” 

“A few ‘g’s’!” I cried in shuddering entreaty. 
“ If you love me, a ‘ g ’ or two.” 

“Well, I suppose so,” said she. “You can’t go 
ridin’ without gees, can you ? ” 

Apparently one could go driving without any, 
but I did not pursue the subject. 

“ It’s only in stories that people are in love when 
they marry,” observed Miss Phaeton reflectively. 

21 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 

“Yes, and then it’s generally with somebody 
else,” said I. 

“ Oh, if you count that / ” said she, hitting Ready 
rather viciously. We bounded forward, and I 
heard the little groom bumping on the back seat. 
I am always glad not to be a groom — it’s a cup-and- 
ball sort of life, which must be very wearying. 

“ Were you ever in love ? ” she asked, just avoid- 
ing a brougham which contained the Duchess of 
Dexminster. (If, by the way, I have to run into 
any one, I like it to be a Duchess : you get a 
much handsomer paragraph.) 

“ Yes,” said I. 

“ Often? ” 

“ Oh, not too often, and I always take great care, 
you know.” 

“ What of?” 

“ That it shall be quite out of the question, you 
know. It’s not at all difficult. I only have to 
avoid persons of moderate means.” 

“ But aren’t you a person of ? ” 

“Exactly. That’s why. So I choose either a 
pauper — when it’s impossible — or an heiress — when 
it’s preposterous. See ? ” 

“But don’t you ever want to get — ?” began 
Miss Phaeton. 

“ Let’s talk about something else,” said I. 

“ I believe you’re humbuggin’ me,” said Miss 
Phaeton. 

“ I am offering a veiled apology,” said I. 

“ Stuff!” said she. “ You know you told Dolly 
22 


THE PERVERSENESS OF IT 

Foster that I should make an excellent wife for a 
trainer.” 

Oh, these women ! A man had better talk to a 
phonograph. 

“ Or anybody else,” said I politely. 

Miss Phaeton whipped up her horses. 

“ Look out ! there’s the mounted policeman,” I 
cried. 

‘‘ No, he isn’t. Are you afraid ? ” she retorted. 

“ I’m not fit to die,” I pleaded. 

“ I don’t care a pin for your opinion, you know,” 
she continued (I had never supposed that she did); 
‘‘ but what did you mean by it ? ” 

‘‘ I never said it.” 

“Oh!” 

“ All right — I never did.” 

“ Then Dolly invented it ? ” 

“ Of course,” said I steadily, 

“ On your honour ? ” 

“ Oh, come. Miss Phaeton ! ” 

“Would — would other people think so?” she 
asked, with a highly surprising touch of timidity. 

“Nobody would,” I said. “ Only a snarling old 
wretch would say so, just because he thought it 
smart.” 

There was a long pause. Then Miss Phaeton 
asked me abruptly : 

“ You never met him, did you ? ” 

“No.” 

A pause ensued. We passed the Duchess again, 
and scratched the nose of her poodle, which was 
23 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


looking out of the carriage window. Miss Phaeton 
flicked Rhino, and the groom behind went plop- 
plop on the seat. 

“ He lives in town, you know,” remarked Miss 
Phaeton. 

“ They mostly do — and write about the country,” 
said I. 

“ Why shouldn’t they? ” she asked fiercely. 

‘‘ My dear Miss Phaeton, by all means let them,” 
said I. 

‘‘ He’s awfully clever, you know,” she continued; 
but he wouldn’t always talk. Sometimes he just 
sat and said nothin’, or read a book.” 

A sudden intuition discovered Mr. Gay’s feelings 
to me. 

‘‘ You were talking about the run, or something, 
I suppose ? ” 

“ Yes, or the bag, you know.” 

As she spoke she pulled up Ready and Rhino. 
The little groom jumped down and stood under 
(not at) their heads. I leant back and surveyed 
the crowd sitting and walking. Miss Phaeton 
flicked a fly off Rhino’s ear, put her whip in the 
socket, and leant back also. 

‘‘Then I suppose you didn’t care much about 
him?” I asked. 

‘‘Oh, I liked him pretty well,” she answered 
very carelessly. 

At this moment, looking along the walk, I saw 
a man coming towards us. He was a handsome 
fellow, with just a touch of “ softness ” in his face. 

24 


THE PERVERSENESS OF IT 


He was dressed in correct fashion, save that his 
hair was a trifle longer, his coat a trifle fuller, his 
hat a trifle larger, his tie a trifle looser than they 
were worn by most. He caught my attention, 
and I went on looking at him for a little while, 
till a slight movement of my companion’s made me 
turn my head. 

Miss Phaeton was sitting bolt upright : she 
fidgeted with the reins; she took her whip out of 
the socket and put it back again; and, to my 
amazement, her cheeks were very red. 

Presently the man came opposite the carriage. 
Miss Phaeton bowed. He lifted his hat, smiled, 
and made as if to pass on. Miss Phaeton held out 
her hand. I could see a momentary gleam of sur- 
prise in his eye, as though he thought her cordiality 
more than he might have looked for — possibly even 
more than he cared about. But he stopped and 
shook hands. 

“ How are you, Mr. Gay ? ” she said, not intro- 
ducing me. 

“Still with your inseparables!” he said gayly, 
with a wave of his hand towards the horses. “ I 
hope. Miss Phaeton, that in the next world your 
faithful steeds will be allowed to bear you com- 
pany, or what will you do ? ” 

“ Oh, you think I care for nothin’ but horses ? ” 
said she petulantly, but she leant towards him, and 
gave me her shoulder. 

“Oh, no,” he laughed. “Dogs also, and, I’m 
afraid, one day it was ferrets, wasn’t it? ” 

3 25 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ Have — have you written any poetry lately ? ” 
she asked. 

‘‘ How conscientious of you to inquire ! ” he ex- 
claimed, his eyes twinkling. ‘‘ Oh, yes, half a hun- 
dred things. Have you — killed — anything lately ? ” 

I could swear she flushed again. Her voice 
trembled as she answered : 

“ No, not lately.” 

I caught sight of his face behind her back, and I 
thought I saw a trace of puzzle — nothing more. 
He held out his hand. 

“ Well, so glad to have seen you. Miss Phaeton,” 
said he, ‘‘ but I must run on. Good-bye.” 

“ Good-bye, Mr. Gay,” said she. 

And, lifting his hat again, smiling again gayly, 
he was gone. For a moment or two I said noth- 
ing. Then I remarked : 

“ So that’s your friend Gay, is it? He’s not a 
bad-looking fellow.” 

“Yes, that’s him,” said she, and, as she spoke, 
she sank back in her seat for a moment. I did 
not look at her face. Then she sat up straight 
again and took the whip. 

“ Want to stay any longer ? ” she asked. 

“No,” said I. 

The little groom sprang away. Rhino and Ready 
dashed ahead. 

“ Shall I drop you at the club ? ” she asked. 
“ I’m goin’ home.” 

“ I’ll get out here,” said I. 

We came to a stand again, and I got down. 

26 


THE PERVERSENESS OF IT 

“ Good-bye,” I said. 

She nodded at me, but said nothing. A second 
later the carriage was tearing down the road, and 
the little groom hanging on for dear life. 

Of course it’s all nonsense. She’s not the least 
suited to him ; she’d make him miserable, and 
then be miserable herself But it seems a little 
perverse, doesn’t it? In fact, twice at least be- 
tween the courses at dinner I caught myself being 
sorry for her. It is, when you think of it, so re- 
markably perverse. 


27 


V 


A MATTER OF DUTY 

Lady Mickleham is back from her honeymoon. 
I mean young Lady Mickleham — Dolly Foster 
(well, of course I do. Fancy the Dowager on a 
honeymoon !). She signified the fact to me by or- 
dering me to call on her at teatime ; she had, she 
said, something which she wished to consult me 
about confidentially. I went. 

“ I didn’t know you were back,” I observed. 

‘‘ Oh, we’ve been back a fortnight, but we went 
down to The Towers. They were all there, Mr. 
Carter.” 

‘‘ All who ? ” 

‘‘All Archie’s people. The Dowager said we 
must get really to know one another as soon as 
possible. I’m not sure I like really knowing peo- 
ple. It means that they say whatever they like to 
you, and don’t get up out of your favourite chair 
when you come in.” 

“ I agree,” said I, “ that a soup^on of unfamiliar- 
ity is not amiss.” 

“ Of course it’s nice to be one of the family,” she 
continued. 

“ The cat is that,” said I. “ I would not give a 
fig for it.” 


28 


A MATTER OF DUTY 

‘‘ And the Dowager taught me the ways of the 
house.” 

“ Ah, she taught me the way out of it.” 

‘‘ And showed me how to be most disagreeable 
to the servants.” 

“ It is the first lesson of a housekeeper.” 

‘‘ And told me what Archie particularly liked, 
and how bad it was for him, poor boy.” 

‘‘ What should we do without our mothers ? I 
do not, however, see how I can help in all this. 
Lady Mickleham.” 

‘‘ How funny that sounds ! ” 

‘‘ Aren’t you accustomed to your dignity yet ? ” 

‘‘ I meant from you, Mr. Carter.” 

I smiled. That is Dolly’s way. As Miss Phae- 
ton says, she means no harm, and it is admirably 
conducive to the pleasure of a tete-a-tete. 

“ It wasn’t that I wanted to ask you about,” she 
continued, after she had indulged in a pensive sigh 
(with a dutifully bright smile and a glance at 
Archie’s photograph to follow. Her behaviour al- 
ways reminds me of a varied and well-assorted 
menu). ‘‘ It was about something much more dif- 
ficult. You won’t tell Archie, will you ? ” 

‘‘ This becomes interesting,” I remarked, putting 
my hat down. 

“ You know, Mr. Carter, that before I was mar- 
ried — oh, how long ago it seems ! ” 

“ Not at all.” 

“ Don’t interrupt. That before I was married I had 

several — that is to say, several — well, several ” 

29 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ Start quite afresh,” I suggested encouragingly. 

“ W ell, then, several men were silly enough to 
think themselves — you know.” 

“No one better,” I assented cheerfully. 

“ Oh, if you won’t be sensible ! — Well, you see, 
mgjijv of them are Archie’s friends as well as mine ; 
and^f course, they’ve been to call.” 

“ It is but good manners,” said I. 

“ One of them waited to be sent for, though.” 

“ Leave that fellow out,” said I. 

“ What I want to ask you is this — and I believe 
you’re not silly, really, you know, except when you 
choose to be.” 

“ Walk in the Row any afternoon,” said I, “ and 
you won’t find ten wiser men.” 

“ It’s this. Ought I to tell Archie ? ” 

“ Good gracious ! Here’s a problem ! ” 

“ Of course,” pursued Lady Mickleham, opening 
her fan, “ it’s in some ways more comfortable that 
he shouldn’t know.” 

“ For him? ” 

“Yes— and for me. But then it doesn’t seem 
quite fair.” 

“ To him ? ” 

“ Yes — and to me. Because if he came to know 
from anybody else, he might exaggerate the things, 
you know.” 

“ Impossible ! ” 

“ Mr. Carter 1 ” 

I — cr — mean he knows you too well to do such 
a thing.” 


30 


A MATTER OF DUTY 

“ Oh, I see. Thank you. Yes. What do you 
think ? ” 

‘‘ What does the Dowager say ? ” 

“ I haven’t mentioned it to the Dowager.” 

“But surely, on such a point, her experi- 
ence ” 

“She can’t have any,” said Lady Mickleham 
decisively. “I believe in her husband, because I 
must. But nobody else ! You’re not giving me 
your opinion.” 

I reflected for a moment. 

“Haven’t we left out one point of view?” I 
ventured to suggest. 

“ I’ve thought it all over very carefully,” said 
she ; “ both as it would affect me and as it would 
affect Archie.” 

“ Quite so. Now suppose you think how it 
would affect them ! ” 

“ Who?” 

“ Why, the men.” 

Lady Mickleham put down her cup of tea. 

“ What a very curious idea ! ” she exclaimed. 

“ Give it time to sink in,” said I, helping myself 
to another piece of toast. 

She sat silent for a few moments — presumably 
to allow of the permeation I suggested. I finished 
my tea and leant back comfortably. Then I said, 

“ Let me take my own case. Shouldn’t I feel 
rather awkward ? ” 

“ Oh, it’s no good taking your case,” she inter- 
rupted. 


31 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


« Why not mine as well as another ? ” 

“ Because I told him about you long ago.” 

I was not surprised. But I could not permit 
Lady Mickleham to laugh at me in the unconscion- 
able manner in which she proceeded to laugh. I 
spread out my hands and observed blandly, 

“ Why not be guided — as to the others, I mean 
— by your husband’s example ? ” 

“ Archie’s example ? What’s that ? ” 

“ I don’t know ; but you do, I suppose.” 

‘‘ What do you mean, Mr. Carter ? ” she asked, 
sitting upright. 

“Well, has he ever told you about Maggie 
Adeane ? ” 

“ I never heard of her.” 

“ Or Lilly Courtenay ? ” 

“ That girl ! ” 

“ Or Alice Layton ? ” 

“ The red-haired Layton? ” 

“ Or Florence CunlifFe ? ” 

“ Who was she? ” 

“ Or Millie Trehearne ? ” 

“ She squints, Mr. Carter.” 

“ Or ” 

“ Stop, stop 1 What do you mean ? What 
should he tell me ? ” 

“Oh, I see he hasn’t. Nor, I suppose, about 
Sylvia Fenton, or that little Delaney girl, or hand- 
some Miss — what was her name ? ” 

“Hold your tongue — and tell me what you 
mean.” 


32 


A MATTER OF DUTY 

“ Lady Mickleham,” said I gravely, “ if your 
husband has not thought fit to mention these ladies 
—and others whom I could name— to you, how 

could I presume ? ” 

“ Do you mean to tell me that Archie ? ” 

“ He d only known you three years, you see. ” 

“ Then it was before ? ” 

“ Some of them were before,” said I. 

Lady Mickleham drew a long breath. 

“Archie will be in soon,” said she. 

I took my hat. 

“It seems to me,” I observed, “that what is 
sauce — that, I should say, husband and wife ought 
to stand on an equal footing in these matters. 
Since he has — no doubt for good reasons — not 

mentioned to you ” 

“ Alice Layton was a positive fright.” 

“ She came last,” said I. “ Just before you, you 

know. However, as I was saying ” 

“ And that horrible Sylvia Fenton ” 

“ Oh, he couldn’t have known you long then. 
As I was saying, I should, if I were you, treat him 
as he has treated you. In my case it seems to be 
too late.” 

“ I’m sorry I told him that.” 

“ Oh, pray don’t mind, it’s of no consequence. 
As to the others ” 

“ I should never have thought it of Archie I ” 
“One never knows,” said I, with an apolo- 
getic smile. “I don’t suppose he thinks it of 
you.” 


33 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ I won’t tell him a single word. He may find 
out if he likes. Who was the last girl you men- 
tioned ? ” 

“ Is it any use trying to remember all their 
names ? ” I asked in a soothing tone. ‘‘No doubt 
he’s forgotten them by now — just as you’ve forgot- 
ten the others.” 

“And the Dowager told me that he had never 
had an attachment before.” 

“ Oh, if the Dowager said that ! Of course, the 
Dowager would know ! ” 

“ Don’t be so silly, for goodness sake ! Are you 
going ? ” 

“Certainly I am. It might annoy Archie to 
find me here when he wants to talk to you.” 

“ Well, I want to talk to him.” 

“ Of course you won’t repeat what I’ve ” 

“ I shall find out for myself,” she said. 

“Good-bye. I hope I’ve removed all your 
troubles ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, thank you. I know what to do now, 
Mr. Carter.” 

“ Always send for me if you’re in any trouble. 
I have some exp ” 

“ Good-bye, Mr. Carter.” 

“ Good-bye, Lady Mickleham. And remember 
that Archie, like you ” 

“ Yes, yes ; I know. Must you go ? ” 

“I’m afraid I must. I’ve enjoyed our talk 
so ” 

“ There’s Archie’s step.” 

34 


A MATTER OF DUTY 

I left the room. On the stairs I met Archie. 
I shook hands sympathetically. I was sorry for 
Archie. But in great causes the individual cannot 
be considered. I had done my duty to my 
sex. 


36 


VI 


MY LAST CHANCE 

“ Now mind,” said Mrs. Hilary Musgrave, impres- 
sively, ‘Hhis is the last time I shall take any trouble 
about you. She’s a very nice girl, quite pretty, 
and she’ll have a lot of money. You can be very 

pleasant when you like ” 

“ This unsolicited testimonial ” 

‘‘ Which isn’t often— and if you don’t do it this 
time I wash my hands of you. Why, how old are 
you ? ” 

“ Hush, Mrs. Hilary.” 

“You must be nearly ” 

“ It’s false — false — false ! ” 

‘‘ Come along,” said Mrs. Hilary, and she added, 
over her shoulder, “ she has a slight north-country 
accent.” 

‘‘ It might have been Scotch,” said I. 

‘‘ She plays the piano a good deal.” 

‘‘ It might have been the fiddle,” said I. 

‘‘ She’s very fond of Browning. ” 

“ It might have been Ibsen,” said I. 

Mrs. Hilary, seeing that I was determined to 
look on the bright side, smiled graciously on me 
and introduced me to the young lady. She was 
decidedly good-looking, fresh and sincere of aspect, 
with large inquiring eyes— eyes which I felt would 

36 


MY LAST CHANCE 


demand a little too much of me at breakfast — but 
then a large tea-urn puts that all right. 

“Miss Sophia Milton — Mr. Carter,” said Mrs. 
Hilary, and left us. 

Well, we tried the theatres first; but as she had 
only been to the Lyceum and I had only been 
to the Gaiety, we soon got to the end of that. 
Then we tried Art : she asked me what I thought 
of Degas : I evaded the question by criticising a 
drawing of a horse in last week’s Punch — which 
she hadn’t seen. Upon this she started literature. 
She said ‘‘Some Qualms and a Shiver” was the 
book of the season. I put my money on “ The 
Queen of the Quorn.” Dead stop again ! And I 
saw Mrs. Hilary’s eye upon me : there was wrath 
in her face. Something must be done. 

A brilliant idea seized me. I had read that four- 
fifths of the culture of England were Conservative. 

I also was a Conservative. It was four to one 
on ! I started politics. I could have whooped for 
joy when I elicited something particularly incisive 
about the ignorance of the masses. 

“ I do hope you agree with me,” said Miss Mil- 
ton. “ The more one reads and thinks, the more one 
sees how fatally false a theory it is that the igno- 
rant masses — people such as I have described — can 
ever rule a great Empire.” 

“ The Empire wants gentlemen ; that’s what it 
wants,” said I, nodding my head, and glancing 
triumphantly at Mrs. Hilary. 

“ Men and women,” said she, “ who are ac- 
37 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


quainted with the best that has been said and 
thought on all important subjects.” 

At the time I believed this observation to be 
original, but I have since been told that it was 
borrowed. I was delighted with it. 

“Yes,” said I, “and have got a stake in the 
country, you know, and know how to behave ’em- 
selves in the House, don’t you know ? ” 

“ What we have to do,” pursued Miss Milton, 
“ is to guide the voters. These poor rustics need 
to be informed ” 

“Just so,” I broke in. “They have to be 
told ” 

“ Of the real nature of the questions ” 

“And which candidate to support.” 

“ Or they must infallibly — ” she exclaimed. 

“ Get their marching orders,” I cried, in rapture. 
It was exactly what I always did on my small 
property. 

“Oh, I didn’t quite mean that,” she said re- 
proachfully. 

“ Oh, well, neither did I — quite,” I responded 
adroitly. What was wrong with the girl now ? 

“ But with the help of the League — ” she went on. 

“ Do you belong ? ” I cried, more delighted than 
ever. 

“ Oh, yes ! ” said she. “ I think it’s a duty. I 
worked very hard at the last election. I spent 
days distributing packages of ” 

Then I made, I’m sorry to say, a false step. I 
observed, interrupting : 


MY LAST CHANCE 


‘‘ But it’s ticklish work now, eh ? Six months’ 
‘ hard ’ wouldn’t be pleasant, would it ? ” 

‘‘ What do you mean, Mr. — er — Carter ? ” she 
asked. 

I was still blind. I believe I winked, and I’m 
sure I whispered, “ Tea'' 

Miss Milton drew herself up very straight. 

“ I do not bribe," she said. “ What I distribute 
is pamphlets.” 

Now, I suppose that “ pamphlets ” and “ blank- 
ets ” don’t really sound much alike, but I was agi- 
tated. 

“ Quite right,” said I. “ Poor old things 1 They 
can’t afford proper fuel.” 

She rose to her feet. 

“I was not joking,” she said with horrible se- 
verity. 

“ Neither was I,” I declared in humble apology. 
‘‘ Didn’t you say ‘ blankets ’ ? ” 

Pamphlets." 

“ Oh ! ” 

There was a long pause. I glanced at Mrs. 
Hilary. Things had not fallen out as happily 
as they might, but I did not mean to give up 
yet. 

‘‘ I see you’re right,” I said, still humbly. ‘‘ To 
descend to such means as I had in my mind is ” 

“ To throw away our true weapons,” said she ear- 
nestly. (She sat down again — good sign.) 

“ What we really need — ” I began. 

“Is a reform of the upper classes,” said she. 

39 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ Let them give an example of duty, of self-denial, 
of frugality.” 

I was not to be caught out again. 

Just what I always say,” I observed impres- 
sively. 

“Let them put away their horse-racing, their 
betting, their luxurious living, their ” 

“ You’re right. Miss Milton,” said I. 

“ Let them set an example of morality.” 

“They should,” I assented. 

Miss Milton smiled. 

“ I thought we agreed really,” said she. 

“ I’m sure we do,” cried I ; and I winked with 
my “ off” eye at Mrs. Hilary as I sat down beside 
Miss Milton. 

“ Now I heard of a man the other day,” said she, 
“ who’s nearly 40. He’s got an estate in the coun- 
try. He never goes there, except for a few days’ 
shooting. He lives in town. He spends too much. 
He passes an absolutely vacant existence in a round 
of empty gaiety. He has by no means a good 
reputation. He dangles about, wasting his time 
and his money. Is that the sort of example ? ” 

“ Hes a traitor to his class,” said I warmly. 

“ If you want him, you must look on a race- 
course, or at a tailor s, or in some fashionable wom- 
an’s boudoir. And his estate looks after itself. 
He’s too selfish to marry, too idle to work, too sillv 
to think.” 

I began to be sorry for this man, in spite of his 
peccadilloes. 


40 


MY LAST CHANCE 


“ I wonder if IVe met him,” said I. ‘‘I’m oc- 
casionally in town, when I can get time to run up. 
What’s his name ? ” 

“ I don’t think I heard — or I’ve forgotten. But 
he’s got the place next to a friend of mine in the 
country, and she told me all about him. She’s ex- 
actly the opposite sort of person — or she wouldn’t 
be my friend.” 

“I should think not. Miss Milton,” said I ad- 
miringly. 

“ Oh, I should like to meet that man, and tell 
him what I think of him ! ” said she. “ Such men 
as he is do more harm than a dozen agitators. So 
contemptible, too ! ” 

“ It’s revolting to think of,” said I. 

“I’m^o glad you — ” began Miss Milton, quite 
confidentially ; I pulled my chair a trifie closer, 
and cast an apparently careless glance towards Mrs. 
Hilary. Suddenly I heard a voice behind me. 

“ Eh, what ? Upon my honour it is ! Why, 
Carter, my boy, how are you ? Eh, what ? Miss 
Milton, too, I declare ! Well, now, what a pity 
Annie didn’t come ! ” 

I disagreed. I hate Annie. But I was very glad 
to see my friend and neighbour, Robert Dinnerly. 
He’s a sensible man — his wife’s a little prig. 

“ Oh, Mr. Dinnerly,” cried Miss Milton, “ how 
funny that you should come just now ! I was just 
trying to remember the name of a man Mrs. Din- 
nerly told me about. I was telling Mr. Carter 
about him. You know him.” 

4 4:1 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ W ell, Miss Milton, perhaps I do. Describe 
him.” 

‘‘ I don’t believe Annie ever told me his name, 
but she was talking about him at our house yester- 
day.” 

But I wasn’t there. Miss Milton.” 

“ No,” said Miss Milton, “ but he’s got the next 
place to yours in the country.” 

I positively leapt from my seat. 

“ Why, good gracious. Carter himself, you 
mean ! ” cried Dinnerly, laughing. “ Well, that is 
a good ’un — ha-ha-ha ! ” 

She turned a stony glare on me. 

“ Do you live next to Mr. Dinnerly in the coun- 
try ? ” she asked. 

I would have denied it if Dinnerly had not been 
there. As it was I blew my nose. 

“ I wonder,” said Miss Milton, “ what has be- 
come of Aunt Emily.” 

“Miss Milton,” said I, “by a happy chance you 
have enjoyed a luxury. You have told the man 
what you think of him.” 

“ Yes,” said she ; “and I have only to add that 
he is also a hypocrite.” 

Pleasant, wasn’t it? Yet Mrs. Hilary says it 
was my fault ! That’s a woman all over ! 


42 


VII 


THE LITTLE WRETCH! 

Seeing that little Johnny Tompkins was safely 
out of the country, under injunctions to make a 
new man of himself, and to keep that new man, 
when made, at the Antipodes, I could not see any- 
thing indiscreet in touching on the matter in the 
course of conversation with Mrs. Hilary Musgrave. 
In point of fact, I was curious to find out what 
she knew, and, supposing she knew, what she 
thought. So I mentioned little Johnny Tompkins. 

“ Oh, the little wretch ! ” cried Mrs. Hilary. 
“You know he came here two or three times? 
Anybody can impose on Hilary.” 

“ Happy woman ! I — I mean unhappy man, 
Mrs. Hilary.” 

“ And how much was it he stole ? ” 

“ Hard on a thousand,” said I. “ For a time, 
you know, he was quite a man of fashion.” 

“ Oh, I know. He came here in his own han- 
som, perfectly dressed, and ” 

“Behaved all right, didn’t he ? ” 

“ Yes. Of course there was a something.” 

“ Or you wouldn’t have been deceived ! ” said I, 
with a smile. 

“I wasn’t deceived,” said Mrs. Hilary, an ad- 
mirable flush appearing on her cheeks. 

“ That is to say, Hilary wouldn’t.” 

43 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ Oh, Hilary ! Why didn’t his employers pros- 
ecute him, Mr. Carter ? ” 

“ In the first place, he had that inestimable ad- 
vantage in a career of dishonesty — respectable re- 
lations.” 

“ Well, but still ” 

“ His widowed mother was a trump, you know.” 

“ Do you mean a good woman ? ” 

‘‘ Doubtless she was ; but I meant a good card. 
However, there was another reason.” 

“ I can’t see any,” declared Mrs. Hilary. 

“I’m going to surprise you,” said I. “Hilary 
interceded for him.” 

“ Hilary ? ” 

“You didn’t know it? I thought not. Well, 
he did.” 

“ Why, he always pretended to want him to be 
convicted.” 

“Cunning Hilary! ” said I. 

“ He used to speak most strongly against him.” 

“ That was his guile,” said I. 

“ Oh, but why in the world — ? ” she began ; then 
she paused, and went on again : “ It was nothing 
to do with Hilary.” 

“ Hilary went with me to see him, you know, 
while they had him under lock and key at the 
firm’s offices.” 

“ Did he ? I never heard that.” 

“ And he was much impressed with his bearing.” 

“Well, I suppose, Mr. Carter, that if he was 
really penitent ” 


44 


THE LITTLE WRETCH ! 

Never saw a man less penitent,” I interrupted. 
“ He gloried in his crime; if I remember his exact 
expression, it was that the jam was jolly well worth 
the powder, and if they liked to send him to chokee 
they could and be — and suffer accordingly, you 
know.” 

‘‘ And after that, Hilary ! ” 

“Oh, anybody can impose on Hilary, you know. 
Hilary only asked what ‘ the jam ’ was.” 

“ Its a horrid expression, but I suppose it meant 
acting the part of a gentleman, didn’t it ? ” 

“ Not entirely. According to what he told Hil- 
ary, Johnny was in love.” 

“ Oh, and he stole for some wretched ? ” 

“ Now, do be careful. What do you know about 
the lady? ” 

“ The lady ! I can imagine Johnny Tompkins’s 
ideal ! ” 

“ So can I, if you come to that.” 

“ And she must have known his money wasn’t 
his own.” 

“ Why must she ? ” I asked. “ According to 
what he told Hilary, she didn’t.” 

“ I don’t believe it,” said Mrs. Hilary, with de- 
cision. 

“ Hilary believed it ! ” 

“ Oh, Hilary 1 ” 

“ But then, Hilary knew the girl.” 

“Hilary knew — ! You mean to say Hilary 
knew ? ” 

“No one better,” said I composedly. 

45 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


Mrs. Hilary rose to her feet. 

‘‘ Who was the creature ? ” she asked sharply. 

‘‘ Come,” I expostulated, ‘‘ how would you like 

it, if your young man had taken to theft, and ’’ 

“ Oh, nonsense. Tell me her name, please, Mr. 
Carter.” 

“Johnny told Hilary that just to see her and talk 
to her and sit by her was ‘ worth all the money ’ — 
but, then, to be sure, it was somebody else’s money 
— and that he’d do it again to get what he had got 
over again. Then, I’m sorry to say, he swore.” 

“ And Hilary believed that stuff ? ” 

“ Hilary agreed with him,” said I. “ Hilary, you 
see, knows the lady.” 

“ What’s her name, Mr. Carter ? ” 

“ Didn’t you notice his attentions to any one ? ” 

“ I notice ! You don’t mean that I’ve seen her? ” 
“ Certainly you have.” 

“ W as she ever here ? ” 

“Yes, Mrs. Hilary. Hilary takes care of that." 

“ I shall be angry in a minute, Mr. Carter. Oh, 
I’ll have this out of Hilary ! ” 

“ I should.” 

“ Who was she ? ” 

“ According to what he told Hilary, she was the 
most fascinating woman in the world. Hilary 
thought so, too.” 

Mrs. Hilary began to walk up and down, 

“ Oh, so Hilary helped to let him go, because 

they both ? ” 

“ Precisely,” said I. 


46 


THE LITTLE WRETCH! 


‘‘ And you dare to come and tell me ? ” 

‘‘Well, I thought you ought to know,” said I. 
“ Hilary’s just as mad about her as Johnny — in 
fact, he said he’d be hanged if he wouldn’t have 
done the same himself.” 

I have once seen Madame Ristori play Lady 
Macbeth. Her performance was recalled to me by 
the tones in which Mrs. Hilary asked : 

“ Who is this woman, if you please, Mr. Carter ? ” 

“ So Hilary got him off — ^gave him fifty pounds 
too.” 

“ Glad to get him away, perhaps,” she burst out, 
in angry scorn. 

“ Who knows ? ” said I. “ Perhaps.” 

“ Her name ? ” demanded Lady Macbeth — I 
mean Mrs. Hilary — again. 

“ I sha’n’t tell you, unless you promise to say 
nothing to Hilary.” 

“ To say nothing 1 Well, really ” 

“ Oh, all right ! ” and I took up my hat. 

“ But I can watch them, can’t 1 ? ” 

“ As much as you like.” 

“ Won’t you tell me? ” 

“ If you promise.” 

“Well, then, I promise.” 

“ Look in the glass.” 

“ What for?” 

“ To see your face, to be sure.” 

She started, blushed red, and moved a step tow- 
ards me. 

“ You don’t mean — ? ” she cried. 

47 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 

Thou art the woman,” said I. 

‘‘ Oh, but he never said a word ” 

“Johnny had his code,” said I, “And in some 
ways it was better than some people’s — in some, 
alas ! worse.” 

“ And Hilary ? ” 

“ Really, you know better than I do whether I’ve 
told the truth about Hilary.” 

A pause ensued. Then Mrs. Hilary made three 
short remarks, which I give in their order : 

(1) “ The little wretch ! ” 

(2) “ Dear old Hilary ! ” 

(3) “ Poor little man ! ” 

I took my hat. I knew that Hilary was due 
from the City in a few minutes. Mrs. Hilary sat 
down by the fire. 

“ How dare you torment me so ? ” she asked, but 
not in the least like Lady Macbeth. 

“ I must have my little amusements,” said I. 

“ What an audacious little creature ! ” said Mrs. 
Hilary. “Fancy his daring! — Aren’t you as- 
tounded ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, I am. But Hilary, you see ” 

“ It’s nearly his time,” said Mrs. Hilary. 

I buttoned my left glove and held out my right 
hand. 

“ I’ve a good mind not to shake hands with you,” 
said she. “ Wasn’t it absurd of Hilary ? ” 

“ Horribly.” 

“ He ought to have been all the more angry.” 

“ Of course he ought.” 

48 


THE LITTLE WRETCH! 

“ The presumption of it 1 ” And Mrs. Hilary 
smiled. I also smiled. 

“That poor old mother of his,” reflected Mrs. 
Hilary. “ Where did you say she lived ? ” 

“ Hilary knows the address,” said I. 

“ Silly little wretch ! ” mused Mrs. Hilary, still 
smiling. 

“ Good-bye,” said I. 

“ Good-bye,” said Mrs. Hilary. 

I turned towards the door and had laid my hand 
on the knob, when Mrs. Hilary called softly, 

“ Mr. Carter.” 

“ Yes,” said I, turning. 

“ Do you know where the little wretch has gone ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said I. 

“ I — I suppose you don’t ever write to him ? ” 

“ Dear me, no,” said I. 

“ But you — could ? ” suggested Mrs. Hilary. 

“ Of course,” said I. 

She jumped up and ran towards me. Her purse 
was in one hand, and a bit of paper fluttered in the 
other. 

“ Send him that — don’t tell him,” she whispered, 
and her voice had a little catch in it. “ Poor little 
wretch ! ” said she. 

As for me, I smiled cynically — quite cynically, 
you know : for it was very absurd. 

“ Please go,” said Mrs. Hilary. 

And I went. 

Supposing it had been another woman ! Well, 
I wonder ! 


49 


VIII 


AN EXPENSIVE PRIVILEGE 

A RATHER uncomfortable thing happened the other 
day which threatened a schism in my acquaintance 
and put me in a decidedly awkward position. It 
was no other than this : Mrs. Hilary Musgrave had 
definitely informed me that she did not approve of 
Lady Mickleham. The attitude is, no doubt, a 
conceivable one, but I was surprised that a woman 
of Mrs. Hilary’s large sympathies should adopt it. 
Besides, Mrs. Hilary is quite good-looking herself. 

The history of the affair is much as follows : I 
called on Mrs. Hilary to see whether I could do 
anything, and she told me all about it. It appears 
that Mrs. Hilary had a bad cold and a cousin up 
from the country about the same time (she was 
justly aggrieved at the double event), and, being 
unable to go to the Duchess of Dexminster’s 
‘‘ squash, she asked Dolly Mickleham to chaperon 
little Miss Phyllis. Little Miss Phyllis, of course, 
knew no one there — the Duchess least of all — (but 
then very few of us — yes, I was there — knew the 
Duchess, and the Duchess didn’t know any of us ; 
I saw her shake hands with a waiter myself, just to 
be on the safe side), and an hour after the party 
began she was discovered wandering about in a 
50 


AN EXPENSIVE PRIVILEGE 

most desolate condition. Dolly had told her that 
she would be in a certain place ; and when Miss 
Phyllis came Dolly was not there. The poor little 
lady wandered about for another hour, looking so 
lost that one was inclined to send for a policeman ; 
and then she sat down on a seat by the wall, and, 
in desperation, asked her next-door neighbour if he 
knew Lady Mickleham by sight, and had he seen 
her lately ? The next-door neighbour, by way of 
reply, called out to a quiet elderly gentleman who 
was sidling unobtrusively about, Duke, are there 
any particularly snug corners in your house ? ” 
The Duke stopped, searched his memory, and said 
that at the end of the Red Corridor there was a 
passage ; and that a few yards down the passage, if 
you turned very suddenly to the right, you would 
come on a little nook under the stairs. The little 
nook just held a settee, and the settee (the Duke 
thought) might just hold two people. The next- 
door neighbour thanked the Duke, and observed to 
Miss Phyllis — 

“ It will give me great pleasure to take you to 
Lady Mickleham.” So they went, it being then, 
according to Miss Phyllis’s sworn statement, pre- 
cisely two hours and five minutes since Dolly had 
disappeared ; and, pursuing the route indicated by 
the Duke, they found Lady Mickleham. And 
Lady Mickleham exclaimed, “ Good gracious, my 
dear, I’d quite forgotten you ! Have you had an 
ice? Do take her to have an ice. Sir John.” (Sir 
John Berry was the next-door neighbour.) And 
51 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 

with that Lady Mickleham is said to have re- 
sumed her conversation. 

“ Did you ever hear anything more atrocious ? ” 
concluded Mrs. Hilary. “ I really cannot think 
what Lord Mickleham is doing.” 

“ You surely mean, what Lady Mickleham ? ” 

“No, I don’t,” said Mrs. Hilary, with extraordi- 
nary decision. “Anything might have happened 
to that poor child.” 

“ Oh, there were not many of the aristocracy 
present,” said I soothingly. 

“ But it’s not that so much, as the thing itself. 
She’s the most disgraceful flirt in London.” 

“ How do you know she was flirting ? ” I in- 
quired with a smile. 

“ How do I know ? ” echoed Mrs. Hilary. 

“It is a very hasty conclusion,” I persisted. 
“ Sometimes I stay talking with you for an hour 
or more. Are you, therefore, flirting with me ? ” 

“ With you ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Hilary, with a lit- 
tle laugh. 

“ Absurd as the supposition is,” I remarked, “ it 
yet serves to point the argument. Lady Mickle- 
ham might have been talking with a friend, just in 
the quiet, rational way in which we are talking 
now.” ° 

“I don’t think that’s likely,” said Mrs. Hilary; 
and well, I do not like to say that she sniffed — it 
would convey too strong an idea, but she did make 
an odd little sound something like a much ethe- 
realised sniff. 


62 


AN EXPENSIVE PRIVILEGE 


I smiled again, and more broadly. I was enjoy- 
ing beforehand the little victory which I was to 
enjoy over Mrs. Hilary. 

“ Yet it happens to be true,” said I. 

Mrs. Hilary was magnificently contemptuous. 

“ Lord Mickleham told you so, I suppose ? ” she 
asked. “ And I suppose Lady Mickleham told 
him — poor man ! ” 

« Why do you call him ‘ poor man ’? ” 

“ Oh, never mind. Did he tell you? ” 

“ Certainly not. The fact is, Mrs. Hilary — and 
really, you must excuse me for having kept you in 
the dark a little — it amused me so much to hear 
your suspicions.” 

Mrs. Hilary rose to her feet. 

“ W ell, what are you going to say ? ” she asked. 

I laughed, as I answered : 

‘‘Why, I was the man with Lady Mickleham 
when your friend and Berry inter — when they ar- 
rived, you know.” 

Well, I should have thought — I should still 
think — that she would have been pleased — re- 
lieved, you know, to find her uncharitable opinion 
erroneous, and pleased to have it altered on the 
best authority. I’m sure that is how I should have 
felt. It was not, however, how Mrs. Hilary felt. 

“ I am deeply pained,” she observed after a long 
pause ; and then she held out her hand. 

“I was sure you’d forgive my little deception,” 
said I, grasping it. I thought still that she meant 
to bury all unkindness. 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ I should never have thought it of you,” she 
went on. 

“ I didn’t know your friend was there at all,” I 
pleaded ; for by now I was alarmed. 

“ Oh, please don’t shuffle like that,” said Mrs. 
Hilary. 

She continued to stand, and I rose to my feet. 
Mrs. Hilary held out her hand again. 

Do you mean that I’m to go ? ” said I. 

‘‘I hope we shall see you again some day,” 
said Mrs. Hilary ; the tone suggested that she was 
looking forward to some future existence, when my 
earthly sins should have been sufficiently purged. 
It reminded me for the moment of King Arthur 
and Queen Guinevere. 

“But I protest,” I began, “that my only object 
in telling you was to show you how absurd ” 

“Is it any good talking about it now?” asked 
Mrs. Hilary. A discussion might possibly be fruit- 
ful in the dim futurity before mentioned — but not 
now — that was what she seemed to say. 

“ Lady Mickleham and I, on the occasion in 
question—” I began, with dignity. 

“ Pray spare me,” quoth Mrs. Hilary, with much 
greater dignity. 

I took my hat. 

“ Shall you be at home as usual on Thursday ? ” 
I asked. 

“ I have a great many people coming already,” 
she remarked. 

“ I can take a hint,” said I. 

54 


AN EXPENSIVE PRIVILEGE 

“ I wish you’d take warning,” said Mrs. Hilary. 

‘‘ I will take my leave,” said I— and I did, leav- 
ing Mrs. Hilary in a tragic attitude in the middle 
of the room. Never again shall I go out of my 
way to lull Mrs. Hilary’s suspicions. 

A day or two after this very trying interview. 
Lady Mickleham’s victoria happened to stop oppo- 
site where I was seated in the park. I went to 
pay my respects. 

‘‘Do you mean to leave me nothing in the 
world,” I asked, just by way of introducing the 
subject of Mrs. Hilary. “ One of my best friends 
has turned me out of her house on your account.” 

“ Oh, do tell me,” said Dolly, dimpling all over 
her face. 

So I told her; I made the story as long as I 
could for reasons connected with the dimples. 

“What fun!” exclaimed Dolly. “I told you 
at the time that a young unmarried person hke 
you ought to be more careful.” 

“I am just debating,” I observed, “whether to 
sacrifice you.” 

“ To sacrifice me, Mr. Carter ? ” 

“Of course,” I explained; “if I dropped you 
Mrs. Hilary would let me come again.” 

“ How charming that would be 1 ” cried Dolly. 
“ You would enjoy her nice serious conversation — • 
all about Hilary !” 

“She is apt,” I conceded, “to touch on Hilary. 
But she is very picturesque.” 

“ Oh, yes, she’s handsome,” said Dolly. 

55 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


There was a pause. Then Dolly said, “ Well ? ” 

“ Well ? ” said I in return. 

‘‘ Is it good-bye ? ” asked Dolly, drawing down 
the corners of her mouth. 

“ It comes to this,” I remarked. “ Supposing I 
forgive you ” 

“ As if it was my fault I ” 

“ And risk Mrs. Hilary’s wrath — did you speak ? ” 

“No ; I laughed, Mr. Carter.” 

“ What shall I get out of it ? ” 

The sun was shining brightly : it shone on Dolly: 
she had raised her parasol, but she blinked a little 
beneath it. She was smiling slightly still, and one 
dimple stuck to its post — like a sentinel, ready to 
rouse the rest from their brief repose. DoUy lay 
back in the victoria, nestling luxuriously against 
the soft cushions. She turned her eyes for a 
moment on me. 

“ Why are you looking at me ? ” she asked. 

“Because,” said I, “there is nothing better to 
look at.” 

“ Do you like doing it ? ” asked Dolly. 

“ It is a privilege,” said I politely. 

“Well, then!” said Dolly. 

“But,” I ventured to observe, “it’s rather an 
expensive one.” 

“ Then you mustn’t have it very often.” 

“ And it is shared by so many people.” 

“Then,” said Dolly, smiling indulgently, “you 
must have it— a little oftener. Home, Roberts, 
please.” 

I am not yet allowed at Mrs. Hilary Musgrave’s. 

56 


IX 


A VERY DULL AFFAIR 

"To hear you talk,” remarked Mrs. Hilary 
Musgrave — and, if any one is surprised to find me 
at her house, I can only say that Hilary, when he 
asked me to take pot-luck, was quite ignorant of 
any ground of difference between his wife and my- 
self, and that Mrs. Hilary could not very well eject 
me on my arrival in evening dress at ten minutes 
to eight — "to hear you talk one would think that 
there was no such thing as real love.” 

She paused. I smiled. 

" Now,” she continued, turning a fine, but scorn- 
ful eye upon me, " I have never cared for any man 
in the world except my husband.” 

I smiled again. Poor Hilary looked very uncom- 
fortable. With an apologetic air he began to 
stammer something about Parish Councils. I was 
not to be diverted by any such manoeuvre. It was 
impossible that he could really wish to talk on that 
subject. 

" Would a person who had never eaten anything 
but beef make a boast of it ? ” I asked. 

Hilary grinned covertly. Mrs. Hilary pulled the 
lamp nearer, and took up her embroidery. 

" Do you always work the same pattern ? ” said I. 

5 67 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


Hilary kicked me gently. Mrs. Hilary made no 
direct reply, but presently she began to talk. 

“ I was just about Phyllis’s age (by the way, 
little Miss Phyllis was there) — when I first saw 
Hilary. You remember, Hilary? At Bourne- 
mouth ? ” 

“ Oh — er — was it Bournemouth ? ” said Hilary, 
with much carelessness. 

“ I was on the pier,” pursued Mrs. Hilary. ‘‘ I 
had a red frock on, I remember, and one of those 
big hats they wore that year. Hilary wore ” 

“ Blue serge,” I interpolated, encouragingly. 

‘‘Yes, blue serge,” said she fondly. “He had 
been yachting, and he was beautifully burnt. I 
was horribly burnt — wasn’t I, Hilary ? ” 

Hilary began to pat the dog. 

“ Then we got to know one another.” 

“Stop a minute,” said I. “How did that hap- 
pen?” 

Mrs. Hilary blushed. 

“Well, we were both always on the pier,” she 
explained. “And— and somehow Hilary got to 
know father, and — and father introduced him to 
me.” 

“ I’m glad it was no worse,” said I. I was con- 
sidering Miss Phyllis, who sat listening, open-eyed. 

“And then, you know, father wasn’t always 
there ; and once or twice we met on the cliff. Do 
you remember that morning, Hilary? ” 

“What morning?” asked Hilary, patting the 
dog with immense assiduity. 

58 


A VERY DULL AFFAIR 


“ Why, the morning I had my white serge on. 
I’d been bathing, and my hair was down to dry, 
and you said I looked like a mermaid.” 

“ Do mermaids wear white serge? ” I asked ; but 
nobody took the least notice of me — quite prop- 
erly. 

“And you told me such a lot about yourself; 
and then we found we were late for lunch.” 

“Yes,” said Hilary, suddenly forgetting the dog, 
“ and your mother gave me an awful glance.” 

“ Yes, and then you told me that you were very 
poor, but that you couldn’t help it; and you said 
you supposed I couldn’t possibly ” 

“ WeU, I didn’t think ! ” 

“And I said you were a silly old thing; and 
then — ” Mrs. Hilary stopped abruptly. 

“ How lovely ! ” remarked little Miss Phyllis in 
a wistful voice. 

“ And do you remember,” pursued Mrs. Hilary, 
laying down her embroidery and clasping her 
hands on her knees, “ the morning you went to see 
father?” 

“ What a row there was ! ” said Hilary. 

“ And what an awful week it was after that ! I 
was never so miserable in all my life. I cried till 
my eyes were quite red, and then I bathed them 
for an hour, and then I went to the pier, and you 
were there — and I mightn’t speak to you ! ” 

“ I remember,” said Hilary, nodding gently. 

“ And then, Hilary, father sent for me and told 
me it was no use; and I said I’d never marry any 
59 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


one else. And father said, ‘There, there, don’t 
cry. We’ll see what mother says.’ ” 

“ Your mother was a brick,” said Hilary, poking 
the fire. 

“ And that night — ^they never told me anything 
about it, and I didn’t even change my frock, but 
came down, looking horrible, just as I was, in an old 
black rag — Now, Hilary, don’t say it was pretty ! ” 

Hilary, unconvinced, shook his head. 

“And when I walked into the drawing-room 
there was nobody there but just you ; and we 
neither of us said anything for ever so long. And 
then father and mother came in and — do you re- 
member after dinner, Hilary ? ” 

“I remember,” said Hilary. 

There was a long pause. Mrs. Hilary was look- 
ing into the fire ; little Miss Phyllis’s eyes were 
fixed, in rapt gaze, on the ceiling; Hilary was 
looking at his wife — I, thinking it safest, was re- 
garding my own boots. 

At last Miss Phyllis broke the silence. 

“ How perfectly lovely ! ” she said. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Hilary. “And we were mar- 
ried three months afterward.” 

“ Tenth of June,” said Hilary, reflectively. 

“ And we had the most charming little rooms 
in the world ! Do you remember those first rooms, 
dear? So tiny!” 

“Not bad little rooms,” said Hilary. 

“ How awfully lovely I ” cried little Miss Phyllis. 

I felt that it was time to interfere. 

60 


A VERY DULL AFFAIR 

“ And is that all? ” I asked. 

“All? How do you mean?” said Mrs. Hilary, 
with a shght start. 

“Well, I mean, did nothing else happen? 
Weren t there any complications ? W eren’t there 
any more troubles, or any more opposition or any 
misunderstandings, or anything? ” 

“ No,” said Mrs. Hilary. 

“ You never quarrelled, or broke it ofF? ” 

“No.” 

“Nobody came between you?” 

“No. It all went just perfectly. Why, of 
course it did.” 

“ Hilary’s people made themselves nasty, per- 
haps ? ” I suggested, with a ray of hope. 

“They fell in love with her on the spot,” said 
Hilary. 

Then I rose and stood with my back to the fire. 

“ I do not know,” I observed, “ what Miss Phyllis 
thinks about it ” 

“ I think it was just perfect, Mr. Carter.” 

“ But for my part, I can only say that I never 
heard of such a dull affair in all my life.” 

“Dull!” gasped Miss Phy llis . 

“Dull!" murmured Mrs. Hilary. 

“Dull!" chuckled Hilary. 

“It was,” said I severely, “without a spark of 
interest from beginning to end. Such things hap- 
pen by thousands. It’s commonplaceness itself 
I had some hopes when your father assumed a firm 
attitude, but ” 


61 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“Mother was such a dear,” interrupted Mrs. 
Hilary. 

“Just so. She gave away the whole situation. 
Then I did trust that Hilary would lose his place, 
or develop an old flame, or do something just a 
little interesting.” 

“ It was a perfect time,” said Mrs. Hilary. 

“ I wonder why in the world you told me about 
it,” I pursued. 

“ I don’t know why I did,” said Mrs. Hilary 
dreamily. 

“ The only possible excuse for an engagement 
like that,” I observed, “ is to be found in intense 
post-nuptial unhappiness.” 

Hilary rose, and advanced towards his wife. 

“Your embroidery’s falling on the floor,” said 
he. 

“ Not a bit of it,” said I. 

“Yes, it is,” he persisted; and he picked it up 
and gave it to her. Miss Phyllis smiled delight- 
edly. Hilary had squeezed his wife’s hand. 

“ Then we don’t excuse it,” said he. 

I took out my watch. I was not finding much 
entertainment. 

“ Surely it’s quite early, old man ? ” said Hilary. 

“It’s nearly eleven. We’ve spent half-an-hour 
on the thing,” said I peevishly, holding out my 
hand to my hostess. 

“ Oh, are you going ? Good-night, Mr. Carter.” 

I turned to Miss Phyllis. 

“ I hope you won’t think all love-affairs are like 
62 


A VERY DULL AFFAIR 


that,” I said ; but I saw her lips begin to shape 
into “ lovely,” and I hastily left the room. 

Hilary came to help me on with my coat. He 
looked extremely apologetic, and very much 
ashamed of himself. 

“ Awfully sorry, old chap,” said he, “ that we 
bored you with our reminiscences. I know, of 
course, that they can’t be very interesting to other 
people. Women are so confoundedly romantic.” 

“ Don’t try that on with me,” said I, much dis- 
gusted. “You were just as bad yourself.” 

He laughed, as he leant against the door. 

“ She did look ripping in that white frock,” he 
said, “ with her hair ” 

“Stop,” said I, firmly. “She looked just like 
a lot of other girls.” 

“ I’m hanged if she did ! ” said Hilary. 

Then he glanced at me with a puzzled sort of 
expression. 

“ I say, old man, weren’t you ever that way your- 
self? ” he asked. 

I hailed a hansom cab. 

“ Because, if you were, you know, you’d under- 
stand how a fellow remembers every ” 

“Good-night,” said I. “At least I suppose 
you’re not coming to the club ? ” 

“Well, I think not,” said Hilary. “Ta-ta, old 
fellow. Sorry we bored you. Of course, if a man 
has never ” 

“ Never ! ” I groaned. “ A score of times ! ” 

“ Well, then, doesn’t it ? ” 

63 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ No,” said 1. “ It’s just that that makes stories 

like yours so infernally ” 

“ What? ” asked Hilary ; for I had paused to 
light a cigarette. 

“Uninteresting,” said I, getting into my cab. 


64 


X 


STRANGE BUT TRUE 

The other day my young cousin George lunched 
with me. He is a cheery youth, and a member of 
the University of Oxford. He refreshes me very 
much, and I believe that I have the pleasure of af- 
fording him some matter for thought. On this 
occasion, however, he was extremely silent and de- 
pressed. I said little, but made an extremely good 
luncheon. Afterward we proceeded to take a 
stroll in the Park. 

“ Sam, old boy,” said George suddenly, ‘‘ I’m 
the most miserable devil alive.” 

“ I don’t know what else you expect at your 
age,” I observed, lighting a cigar. He walked on 
in silence for a few moments. 

“ I say, Sam, old boy, when you were young, 
were you ever — ? ” He paused, arranged his neck- 
cloth (it was more like a bed-quilt— oh, the fash- 
ion, of course, I know that), and blushed a fine 
crimson. 

“ Was I ever what, George ? ” I had the curios- 
ity to ask. 

“Oh, well, hard hit, you know — a girl, you 
know.” 

“ In love, you mean, George ? No, I never 
was.” 


65 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


‘‘ Never ? ” 

“No. Are you?” 

“ Yes. Hang it ! ” Then he looked at me with 
a puzzled air and continued, 

“ I say, though, Sam, it’s awfully funny you 
shouldn’t have — don’t you know what it’s like, 
then ? ” 

“ How should I ? ” I inquired apologetically. 

“ What is it like, George ? ” 

George took my arm. 

“ It’s just Hades,” he informed me confidentially. 

“ Then,” I remarked, “ I have no reason to re- 
gret ” 

“ Still, you know,” interrupted George, “ it’s not 
half-bad.” 

“That appears to me to be a paradox,” I ob- 
served. 

“ It’s precious hard to explain it to you if you’ve 
never felt it,” said George, in rather an injured 
tone. “ But what I say is quite true.” 

“ I shouldn’t think of contradicting you, my 
dear fellow,” I hastened to say. 

“ Let’s sit down,” said he, “ and watch the peo- 
ple driving. We may see somebody — somebody 
we know, you know, Sam.” 

“ So we may,” said I, and we sat down. 

“ A fellow,” pursued George, with knitted brows, 
“ is all turned upside-down, don’t you know ? ” 

“How very peculiar !” I exclaimed. 

“ One moment he’s the happiest dog in the 
world, and the next — well, the next, it’s the deuce.” 

66 


STRANGE BUT TRUE 


“But,” I objected, “not surely without good 
reason for such a change? ” 

“ Reason ? Bosh I The least thing does it” 

I flicked the ash from my cigar. 

“ It may,” I remarked, “ affect you in this ex- 
traordinary way, but surely it is not so with most 
people ? ” 

“ Perhaps not,” George conceded. “ Most peo- 
ple are cold-blooded asses.” 

“ Very likely the explanation lies in that fact,” 
said I. 

“ I didn’t mean you, old chap,” said George, with 
a penitence which showed that he had meant me. 

“ Oh, all right, all right,” said I. 

“ But when a man’s really far gone there’s noth- 
ing else in the world but it.” 

“That seems to me not to be a healthy con- 
dition,” said I. 

“ Healthy ? Oh, you old idiot, Sam I Who’s 
talking of health ? Now, only last night I met 
her at a dance. I had five dances with her — talked 
to her half the evening, in fact. Well, you’d think 
that would last some time, wouldn’t you ? ” 

“ I should certainly have supposed so,” I as- 
sented. 

“ So it would with most chaps, I dare say, but 
with me — confound it, I feel as if I hadn’t seen 
her for six months ! ” 

“ But, my dear George, that is surely rather ab- 
surd ? As you tell me, you spent a long while 
with the young person ” 


67 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ The — young — person ! ” 

“ You’ve not told me her name, you see.” 

“ No, and I sha’n’t. I wonder if she’ll be at the 
Musgraves’ to-night ! ” 

‘‘ You’re sure,” said I soothingly, “ to meet her 
somewhere in the course of the next few weeks.” 

George looked at me. Then he observed with a 
bitter laugh : 

“ It’s pretty evident youve never had it. You’re 
as bad as those chaps who write books.” 

“ Well, but surely they often describe with suf- 
ficient warmth and — er — colour ” 

‘‘ Oh, I dare say ; but it’s all wrong. At least, 
it’s not what I feel. Then look at the girls in 
books ! All beasts ! ” 

George spoke with much vehemence ; so that I 
was led to say, 

“ The lady you are preoccupied with is, I sup- 
pose, handsome ? ” 

George turned swiftly round on me. 

Look here, can you hold your tongue, Sam ? ” 

I nodded. 

“ Then I’m hanged if I won’t point her out to 
you ! ” 

‘‘That’s uncommon good of you, George,” 
said I. 

“ Then you’ll see,” continued George. “ But 
it’s not only her looks, you know, she’s the 
most ” 

He stopped. Looking round to see why, I ob- 
served that his face was red ; he clutched his walk- 
68 


STRANGE BUT TRUE 


ing-stick tightly in his left hand; his right hand 
was trembling, as if it wanted to jump up to his 
hat. “ Here she comes 1 Look, look ! ” he whis- 
pered. 

Directing my eyes towards the lines of carriages 
which rolled past us, I observed a girl in a victoria; 
by her side sat a portly lady of middle age. The 
girl was decidedly like the lady; a description of 
the lady would not, I imagine, be interesting. The 
girl blushed slightly and bowed. George and I 
lifted our hats. The victoria and its occupants 
were gone. George leant back with a sigh. After 
a moment, he said, 

“ Well, that was her.” 

There was expectancy in his tone. 

“ She has an extremely prepossessing appearance,” 
I observed. 

“ There isn’t,” said George, “ a girl in London to 
touch her. Sam, old boy, I believe — I believe she 
likes me a bit.” 

‘‘I’m sure she must, George,” said I; and, in- 
deed, 1 thought so. 

“ The Governor’s infernally unreasonable,” said 
George, fretfuUy. 

“ Oh, you’ve mentioned it to him ? ” 

“ I sounded him. Oh, you may be sure he didn’t 
see what I was up to. I put it quite generally. 
He talked rot about getting on in the world. Who 
wants to get on ? ” 

“ Who, indeed ? ” said I. “ It is only changing 
what you are for something no better.” 

69 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


‘‘ And about waiting till I know my own mind. 
Isn’t it enough to look at her ? ” 

“ Ample, in my opinion,” said I. 

George rose to his feet. 

“They’ve gone to a party; they won’t come 
round again,” said he. “We may as well go, 
mayn’t we ? ” 

I was very comfortable : so I said timidly, 

“We might see somebody else we know.” 

“ Oh, somebody else be hanged ! Who wants to 
see ’em ? ” 

“ I’m sure I don’t,” said I hastily, as I rose from 
my armchair, which was at once snapped up. 

We were about to return to the club, when I 
observed Lady Mickleham’s barouche standing 
under the trees. I invited George to come and be 
introduced. 

He displayed great indifference. 

“ She gives a good many parties,” said I ; “ and 
perhaps ” 

“ By Jove ! yes. I may as well,” said George. 
“ Glad you had the sense to think of that, old 
man.” 

So I took him up to Dolly and presented him. 
Dolly was very gracious : George is an eminently 
presentable boy. AYe fell into conversation. 

“My cousin. Lady Mickleham,” said I, “has 
been telling me ” 

Oh, shut up, Sam ! ’ said George, not, however, 
appearing very angry. 

“ About a subject on which you can assist him 
70 


STRANGE BUT TRUE 

more than I can, inasmuch as you are married. He 
is in love.” 

Dolly glanced at George. 

‘‘ Oh, what fun ! ” said she. 

“ Fun ! ” cried George. 

‘‘ I mean, how awfully interesting,” said Dolly, 
suddenly transforming her expression. 

“And he wanted to be introduced to you be- 
cause you might ask her and him to ” 

George became red, and began to stammer an 
apology. 

“Oh, I don’t believe him,” said Dolly kindly; 
“ he always makes people uncomfortable if he can. 
What were you telling him, Mr. George ? ” 

“ It’s no use telling him anything. He can’t un- 
derstand,” said George. 

“Is she very — ?” asked Dolly, fixing doubtfully 
grave eyes on my young cousin. 

“Sam’s seen her,” said he, in an access of shy- 
ness. 

Dolly turned to me for an opinion, and I gave 
one : 

“She is just,” said I, “as charming as he thinks 
her.” 

Dolly leant over to my cousin, and whispered, 
“Tell me her name.” And he whispered some- 
thing back to Dolly. 

“It’s awfully kind of you. Lady Mickleham,” 
he said. 

“I am a kind old thing,” said Dolly, all over 
dimples. “ I can easily get to know them.” 

71 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ Oh, you really are awfully kind, Lady Mickle- 
ham.” 

Dolly smiled upon him, waved her hand to me, 
and drove off, crying — 

“ Do try to make Mr. Carter understand ! ” 

We were left alone. George wore a meditative 
smile. Presently he roused himself to say, 

“ She’s really a very kind woman. She’s so sym- 
pathetic. She’s not like you. I expect she felt it 
once herself, you know.” 

“One can never tell,” said I carelessly. “Per- 
haps she did — once.” 

George feU to brooding again. I thought I 
would try an experiment. 

“Not altogether bad-looking, either, is she?” I 
asked, lighting a cigarette. 

George started. 

“ What ? Oh, well, I don’t know. I suppose 
some people might think so.” 

He paused, and added, with a bashful, knowing 
smile — 

“ You can hardly expect me to go into raptures 
about her, can you, old man ? ” 

I turned my head away, but he caught me. 

“ Oh, you needn’t smile in that infernally patron- 
ising way,” he cried angrily. 

“Upon my word, George,” said I, “I don’t 
know that I need.” 


72 


XI 


THE VERY LATEST THING 

“ It’s the very latest thing,” said Lady Mickleham, 
standing by the table in the smoking-room, and 
holding an album in her hand. 

“ I wish it had been a little later still,” said I, for 
I felt embarrassed. 

You promise, on your honour, to be absolutely 
sincere, you know, and then you write what you 
think of me. See what a lot of opinions I’ve got 
already,” and she held up the thick album. 

“It would be extremely interesting to read 
them,” I observed. 

“ Oh ! but they’re quite confidential,” said Dolly. 
“ That’s part of the fun.” 

“ I don’t appreciate that part,” said I. 

“Perhaps you will when you’ve written yours,” 
suggested Lady Mickleham. 

“ Meanwhile, mayn’t I see the Dowager’s ? ” 

“Well, I’ll show you a little bit of the Dow- 
ager’s. Look here ; ‘Our dear Dorothea is still 
perhaps just a thought wanting in seriousness, but 
the sense of her position is having a sobering 
effect.” 

“ I hope not,” I exclaimed apprehensively. 
“Whose is this ?” 


6 


73 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ Archie’s/' 

“ May I see a bit ? ” 

“ Not a bit,” said Dolly. “ Archie’s is — ^is rather 
foolish, Mr. Carter.” 

“ So I suppose,” said I. 

‘‘ Dear boy ! ” said Dolly reflectively. 

‘‘ I hate sentiment,” said I. “ Here’s a long one. 
Who wrote ? ” 

“Oh, you mustn’t look at that — not at that, 
above all ! ” 

“ Why above all ? ” I asked with some severity. 

Dolly smiled; then she observed in a soothing 
tone : 

“ Perhaps it won’t be ‘ above all ’ when you’ve 
written yours, Mr. Carter.” 

“ By the way,” I said carelessly, “ I suppose 
Archie sees all of them ? ” 

“He has never asked to see them,” answered 
Lady Mickleham. 

The reply seemed satisfactory ; of course, Archie 
had only to ask. I took a clean quill and prepared 
to write. 

“You promise to be sincere, you know,” Dolly 
reminded me. 

I laid down my pen. 

“ Impossible ! ” said I firmly. 

“ Oh, but why, Mr. Carter ? ” 

“ There would be an end of our friendship.” 

‘‘Do you think as badly of me as all that?” 
asked Dolly with a rueful air. 

I leant back in my chair and looked at Dolly. 


THE VERY LATEST THING 

She looked at me. She smiled. I may have 
smiled. 

“Yes,” said I. 

“ Then you needn’t write it quite all down,” said 
Dolly. 

“ I am obliged,” said I, taking up my pen. 

“You mustn’t say what isn’t true, but you 
needn’t say everything that is — that might be — 
true,” explained Dolly. 

This, again, seemed satisfactory. I began to 
write, Dolly sitting opposite me with her elbows 
on the table, and watching me. 

After ten minutes’ steady work, which included 
several pauses for reflection, I threw down the pen, 
leant back in my chair, and lit a cigarette. 

“ Now read it,” said Dolly, her chin in her hands 
and her eyes fixed on me. 

“It is, on the whole,” I observed, “compli- 
mentary.” 

“No, really?” said Dolly. “Yet you promised 
to be sincere.” 

“You would not have had me disagreeable ? ” I 
asked. 

“ That’s a different thing,” said Dolly. “ Read 
it, please.” 

“Lady Mickleham,” I read, “is usually ac- 
counted a person of considerable attractions. She 
is widely popular, and more than one woman has 
been known to like her.” 

“ I don’t quite understand that,” interrupted 
Dolly. 


75 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ It is surely simple,” said I ; and I read on with- 
out delay. “ She is kind even to her husband, and 
takes the utmost pains to eonceal from her mother- 
in-law anything calculated to distress that lady.” 

‘‘I suppose you mean that to be nice? ’’said 
Dolly. 

‘‘ Of course,” I answered ; and I proceeded : 
‘‘ She never gives pain to any one, except with the 
object of giving pleasure to somebody else, and her 
kindness is no less widely diffused than it is hearty 
and sincere.” 

‘‘ That really is nice,” said Dolly, smiling. 

“Thank you,” said I, smiling also. “She is 
very charitable : she takes a pleasure in encourag- 
ing the shy and bashful ” 

“ How do you know that ? ” asked Dolly. 

“ While,” I pursued, “ suffering without impa- 
tience a considerable amount of self-assurance.” 

“ You can’t know whether I’m patient or not,” 
remarked Dolly. I’m polite.” 

“ She thinks,” I read on, “ no evil of the most 
attractive of women, and has a smile for the most 
unattractive of men.” 

“You put that very nicely,” said Dolly, nod- 
ding. 

“The former may constantly be seen in her 
house — and the latter at least as often as many 
people would think desirable.” (Here for some 
reason Dolly laughed.) “Her intellectual powers 
are not despicable.” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Carter.” 

76 


THE VERY LATEST THING 

She can say what she means on the occasions 
on which she wishes to do so, and she is, at other 
times, equally capable of meaning much more than 
she would be likely to say.” 

‘‘ How do you mean that, Mr. Carter, please ? ” 

“ It explains itself, ” said I, and I proceeded : 
‘‘ The fact of her receiving a remark with disappro- 
bation does not necessarily mean that it causes her 
displeasure, nor must it be assumed that she did 
not expect a visitor, merely on the ground that she 
greets him with surprise.” 

Here I observed Lady Mickleham looking at me 
rather suspiciously. 

“ I don’t think that’s quite nice of you, Mr. Car- 
ter,” she said pathetically. 

‘‘ Lady Mickleham is, in short,” I went on, com- 
ing to my peroration, ‘‘ equally deserving of esteem 
and affection ” 

‘‘ Esteem and affection ! That sounds just right,” 
said Dolly approvingly. 

“ And those who have been admitted to the en- 
joyment of her friendship are unanimous in discour- 
aging all others from seeking a similar privilege.” 

“ I beg your pardon ? ” cried Lady Mickleham. 

“ Are unanimous, ” I repeated, slowly and dis- 
tinctly, ‘‘ in discouraging all others from seeking a 
similar privilege.” 

Dolly looked at me, with her brow slightly puck- 
ered. I leant back, puffing at my cigarette. Pres- 
ently — for there was quite a long pause — Dolly’s lips 
curved. 


77 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ My mental powers are not despicable,” she ob- 
served. 

“ I have said so,” said I. 

“ I think I see,” she remarked. 

‘ ‘ Is there anything wrong ? ” I asked anxiously. 

“ N-no,” said Dolly, ‘‘not exactly wrong. In 
fact, I rather think I hke that last bit best. Still, 
don’t you think ? ” 

She rose, came round the table, took up the pen, 
and put it back in my hand. 

“ What’s this for ? ” I asked. 

“ To correct the mistake,” said Dolly. 

“ Do you really think so ? ” said I. 

“ I’m afraid so,” said Dolly. 

I took the pen and made a certain alteration. 
Dolly took up the album. “ ‘ Are unanimous, ’ ” 
she read, “ ‘ in encouraging all others to seek a 
similar privilege.’ Yes, you meant that, you know, 
Mr. Carter.” 

“ I suppose I must have,” said I, rather sulkily. 

“ The other was nonsense,” urged Dolly. 

“ Oh, utter nonsense,” said I. 

“ And you had to write the truth ! ” 

“Yes, I had to write some of it.” 

“ And nonsense can’t be the truth, can it, Mr. 
Carter?” 

“ Of course it can’t. Lady Mickleham.” 

“ Where are you going, Mr. Carter ? ” she asked; 
for I rose from my chair. 

“ To have a quiet smoke,” said I. 

“Alone?” asked Dolly. 

78 


THE VERY LATEST THING 


“Yes, alone,” said I. 

I walked towards the door. Dolly stood by the 
table fingering the album. I had almost reached 
the door ; then I happened to look round. 

“ Mr. Carter ! ” said Dolly, as though a new idea 
had struck her. 

“ What is it. Lady Mickleham ? ” 

“Well, you know, Mr. Carter, I — I shall try to 
forget that mistake of yours.” 

“You’re very kind. Lady Mickleham.” 

“But,” said Dolly, with a troubled smile, “I — 
I’m quite afraid I sha’n’t succeed, Mr. Carter.” 

After all, the smoking-room is meant for smok- 
ing. 


79 


XII 


AN UNCOUNTED HOUR 


We were standing, Lady Mickleham and I, at a 
door which led from the morning-room to the ter- 
race at The Towers. I was on a visit to that his- 
toric pile (by Vanbrugh — out of the money ac- 
cumulated by the third Earl— Paymaster to the 
Forces — temp. Queen Anne). The morning- 
room is a large room. Archie was somewhere in 
it. Lady Mickleham held ajar containing de 
foie gras; from time to time she dug a piece out 
with a fork and flung the morsel to a big retriever 
which was sitting on the terrace. The morning 
was fine, but cloudy. Lady Mickleham wore blue. 
The dog swallowed the paid with greediness. 

“ It’s so bad for him,” sighed she ; “ but the dear 
likes it so much.” 


‘‘ How human the creatures are ! ” said I. 

’ P'^J^ued Lady Mickleham, 
that the Dowager says I’m extravagant. She 
thinks dogs ought not to be fed on pdte de foie 


“ Your extravagance,” I observed, “is probably 
due to your having been brought up on a moderate 
income. I have felt the effect myself.” 

“ Of course, said Dolly, ‘‘ we are hit by the am- 
cultural depression.” 


80 


AN UNCOUNTED HOUR 

“The Carters also,” I murmured, “are landed 
gentry.” 

“ After all, I don t see much point in economy, 
do you, Mr. Carter ? ” 

“Economy,” I remarked, putting my hands in 
my pockets, “ is going without something you do 
want in case you should, some day, want some 
thing which you probably won’t want.” 

“ Isn’t that clever ? ” asked Dolly in an appre- 
hensive tone. 

“ Oh, dear no,” I answered reassuringly. “ Any- 
body can do that — if they care to try, you know.” 

Dolly tossed a piece of pate to the retriever. 

“ I have made a discovery lately,” I observed. 

“What are you two talking about?” called 
Archie. 

“ You’re not meant to hear,” said Dolly, without 
turning round. 

“Yet, if it’s a discovery, he ought to hear it.” 

“ He’s made a good many lately,” said Dolly. 

She dug out the last bit of pate, flung it to the 
dog, and handed the empty pot to me. 

“ Don’t be so allegorical,” I implored. “ Besides, 
it’s really not just to Archie. No doubt the dog is 
a nice one, but ” 

“ How foolish you are this morning ! What’s 
the discovery ? ” 

“ An entirely surprising one.” 

“ Oh, but let me hear ! It’s nothing about 
Archie, is it? ” 

“ No. I’ve told you all Archie’s sins.” 

81 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


‘‘Nor Mrs. Hilary? I wish it was Mrs. Hil- 
ary ! ” 

“ Shall we walk on the terrace ? ” I suggested. 

“ Oh, yes, let’s,” said Dolly, stepping out, and 
putting on a broad- brimmed, low-crowned hat, 
which she caught up from a chair hard by. “ It 
isn’t Mrs. Hilary ? ” she added, sitting down on a 
garden seat. 

“No,” said I, leaning on a sun-dial which stood 
by the seat. 

“ Well, what is it ? ” 

“ It is simple,” said I, “ and serious. It is not, 
therefore, like you. Lady Mickleham.” 

“ It’s like Mrs. Hilary,” said Dolly. 

“No; because it isn’t pleasant. By the way, are 
you jealous of Mrs. Hilary ? ” 

Dolly said nothing at all. She took off her hat, 
roughened her hair a little, and assumed an effective 
pose. Still, it is a fact (for what it is worth) that 
she doesn’t care much about Mrs. Hilary. 

“ The discovery,” I continued, “ is that I’m grow- 
ing middle-aged.” 

“ You are middle-aged,” said Dolly, spearing her 
hat with its long pin. 

I was, very naturally, nettled at this. 

“ So will you be soon,” I retorted. 

“Not soon,” said Dolly. 

“ Some day,” I insisted. 

After a pause of about half a minute, Dolly 
said, “ I suppose so.” 

“ You will become,” I pursued, idly drawing pat- 
82 


AN UNCOUNTED HOUR 


terns with my finger on the sun-dial, “wrinkled, 
rough, fat — and, perhaps, good.” 

“ You’re very disagreeable to-day,” said Dolly. 

She rose and stood by me. 

“ What do the mottoes mean ? ” she asked. 

There were two : I will not say they contra- 
dicted one another, but they looked at life from 
different points of view. 

“ Pereunt et imputantur, ” I read. 

“ Well, what’s that, Mr. Carter?” 

“ A trite, but offensive, assertion,” said I, light- 
ing a cigarette. 

“ But what does it mean ? ” she asked, a pucker 
on her forehead. 

“ What does it matter ? ” said I. “ Let’s try the 
other.” 

“ The other is longer.” 

“ And better. Horas non numero nisi serenas^ 

“ And what’s that ? ” 

I translated literally. Dolly clapped her hands, 
and her face gleamed with smiles. 

“ I like that one ! ” she cried. 

“ Stop ! ” said I imperatively. “ You’ll set it 
moving ! ” 

“ It’s very sensible,” said she. 

“More freely rendered, it means ‘I live only 
when you ’ ” 

“ By Jove ! ” remarked Archie, coming up be- 
hind us, pipe in mouth, “there was a lot of 
rain last night. I’ve just measured it in the 
gauge.” 


83 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ Some people measure everything,” said I, with 
a displeased air. “ It is a detestable habit.” 

“Archie, what does Pereunt et imputantur vnediXiV' 
“ Eh ? Oh, I see. Well I say. Carter ! — Oh, 
well, you know, I suppose it means you’ve got to 
pay for your fun, doesn’t it ? ” 

“ Oh, is that all ? I was afraid it was something 
horrid. Why did you frighten me, Mr. Carter ? ” 

“ I think it is rather horrid,” said I. 

“ Why, it isn’t even true,” said Dolly scornfully. 
Now when I heard this ancient and respectable 
legend thus cavalierly challenged, I fell to studying 
it again, and presently I exclaimed : 

“Yes, you’re right ! If it said that, it wouldn’t 
be true; but Archie translated wrong.” 

“ Well, you have a shot,” suggested Archie. 
“The oysters are eaten and put down in the 
bill,” said I. “ And you will observe, Archie, that 
it does not say in whose bill.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Dolly. 

“Well, somebody’s got to pay,” persisted Archie. 
“ Oh, yes, somebody,” laughed Dolly. 

“ Well, I don’t know,” said Archie. “ I suppose 

the chap that has the fun ” 

“ It’s not always a chap,” observed Dolly. 

“Well, then, the individual,” amended Archie. 

“ I suppose he’d have to pay.” 

“ It doesn’t say so,” I remarked mildly. “ And 

according to my small experience ” 

“ I’m quite sure your meaning is right, Mr. Car- 
ter,” said Dolly, in an authoritative tone. 

84 


AN UNCOUNTED HOUR 

‘‘As for the other motto, Archie,” said I, “it 
merely means that a woman considers all hours 
wasted which she does not spend in the society of 
her husband.” 

“ Oh, come, you don’t gammon me,” said Archie. 
“ It means that the sun don’t shine unless it’s fine, 
you know.” 

Archie delivered this remarkable discovery in a 
tone of great self-satisfaction. 

“ Oh, you dear old thing ! ” said Dolly. 

“ W ell, it does, you know,” said he. 

There was a pause. Archie kissed his wife (I am 
not complaining; he has, of course, a perfect right 
to kiss his wife) and strolled away towards the hot- 
houses. 

I lit another cigarette. Then Dolly, pointing to 
the stem of the dial, cried : 

“Why, here’s another inscription — oh, and in 
English ! ” 

She was right. There was another — carelessly 
scratched on the old battered column — nearly ef- 
faced, for the characters had been but lightly 
marked — and yet not, as I conceived from the tenor 
of the words, very old. 

“ What is it ? ” asked Dolly, peering over my 
shoulder, as I bent down to read the letters, and 
shading her eyes with her hand. (Why didn’t she 
put on her hat? We touch the Incomprehensi- 
ble.) 

“ It is, ” said I, “ a singularly poor, shallow, fee- 
ble, and undesirable little verse.” 

85 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ Read it out,” said Dolly. 

So I read it. The silly fellow had written : 

Life is Love, the poets tell us, 

In the little books they sell us ; 

But pray, ma’am — what’s of Life the Use, 

If Life be Love ? For Love’s the Deuce. 

Dolly began to laugh gently, digging the pin 
again into her hat. 

‘‘ I wonder,” said she, ‘‘ whether they used to 
come and sit by this old dial just as we did this 
morning ! ” 

“ I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” said I. “ And 
another point occurs to me. Lady Mickleham.” 

“ Oh, does it ? What’s that, Mr. Carter? ” 

“ Do you think that anybody measured the rain- 
gauge? ” 

Dolly looked at me very gravely. 

“I’m so sorry when you do that,” said she pa- 
thetically. 

I smiled. 

“I really am,” said Dolly. “But you don’t 
mean it, do you ? ” 

“ Certainly not,” said I. 

Dolly smiled. 

“No more than he did ! ” said I, pointing to the 
sun-dial. 

And then we both smiled. 

“ Will this hour count, Mr. Carter ? ” asked 
Dolly, as she turned away. 

“ That would be rather strict,” said I. 

86 


XIII 


A REMINISCENCE , 

‘‘ I KNOW exactly what your mother wants, Phyl- 
lis,” observed Mrs. Hilary. 

“It’s just to teach them the ordinary things,” 
said little Miss Phyllis. 

“ What are the ordinary things ? ” I ventured to 
ask. 

“ What all girls are taught, of course, Mr. Car- 
ter,” said Mrs. Hilary. “ I’ll write about it at 
once.” And she looked at me as if she thought 
that I might be about to go. 

“ It is a comprehensive curriculum,” I remarked, 
crossing my legs, “ if one may judge from the re- 
sults. How old are your younger sisters. Miss 
Phyllis ? ” 

“ Fourteen and sixteen, ” she answered. 

“ It is a pity,” said I, “ that this didn’t happen a 
little while back. I knew a governess who would 
have suited the place to a ‘ t.’ ” 

Mrs. Hilary smiled scornfully. 

“We used to meet,” I continued. 

“ Who used to meet ? ” asked Miss Phyllis. 

“ The governess and myself, to be sure,” said I, 
“ under the old apple-tree in the garden at the back 
of the house.” 


87 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ What house, Mr. Carter ? ” 

“ My father’s house, of course. Miss Phyllis. 
And ” 

“ Oh, but that must be ages ago ! ” cried she. 

Mrs. Hilary rose, cast one glance at me, and 
turned to the writing-table. Her pen began to 
scratch almost immediately. 

“ And under the apple-tree,” I pursued, “ we had 
many pleasant conversations.” 

“ What about?” asked Miss Phyllis. 

“ One thing and another,” I returned. “ The 
schoolroom windows looked out that way — a cir- 
cumstance which made matters more comfortable 
for everybody.” 

“ I should have thought — ” began Miss Phyllis, 
smiling slightly, but keeping an apprehensive eye 
on Mrs. Hilary’s back. 

“ Not at all,” I interrupted. “ My sisters saw 
us, you see. Well, of course they entertained an 
increased respect for me, which was all right, and a 
decreased respect for the governess, which was also 
all right. We met in the hour allotted to French 
lessons — by an undesigned but appropriate coinci- 
dence.” 

“ I shall say about thirty-five, Phyllis,” called 
Mrs. Hilary from the writing-table. 

“ Yes, Cousin Mary,” called Miss Phyllis. “ Did 
you meet often, Mr. Carter ? ” 

“ Every evening in the French hour,” said I. 

“ She’ll have got over any nonsense by then,” 
called Mrs. Hilary. “ They’re often full of it.” 

88 


A REMINISCENCE 


“ She had remarkably pretty hair,” I continued; 
“ very soft it was. Dear me ! I was just twenty.” 

“ How old was she ? ” asked Miss Phyllis. 

“One’s first love,” said I, “is never any age. 
Everything went very well. Happiness was im- 
possible. I was heartbroken, and the governess 
was far from happy. Ah, happy, happy times ! ” 

“ But you don’t seem to have been happy,” ob- 
jected Miss Phylhs. 

“ Then came a terrible evening ” 

“She ought to be a person of active habits,” 
called Mrs. Hilary. 

“ I think so, yes. Cousin Mary. Oh, what hap- 
pened, Mr. Carter ? ” 

“ And an early riser,” added Mrs. Hilary. 

“Yes, Cousin Mary. What did happen, Mr. 
Carter ? ” 

“ My mother came in during the French hour. 
I don’t know whether you have observed. Miss 
Phyllis, how easy it is to slip into the habit of en- 
tering rooms when you had better remain outside. 
Now, even my friend Arch — However, that’s 
neither here nor there. My mother, as I say, came 
in.” 

“ Church of England, of course, Phyllis ? ” called 
Mrs. Hilary. 

“ Oh, of course^ Cousin Mary,” cried little Miss 
Phyllis. 

“ The sect makes no difference,” I observed. 
“Well, my sisters, like good girls, began to repeat 
the irregular verbs. But it was no use. We were 
7 89 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


discovered. That night, Miss Phyllis, I nearly 
drowned myself.” 

“ You must have been — Oh, how awful, Mr. 
Carter 1 ” 

“That is to say, I thought how efFeetive it 
would be if I downed myself Ah, well, it 
couldn’t last ! ” 

“ And the governess ? ” 

“ She left next morning.” 

There was a pause. Miss Phyllis looked sad 
and thoughtful : I smiled pensively and beat my 
eane against my leg. 

“Have you ever seen her sinee?” asked Miss 
Phyllis. 

“ No.” 

“ Shouldn’t— shouldn’t you like to, Mr. Carter ? ” 

“ Heaven forbid ! ” said I. 

Suddenly Mrs. Hilary pushed back her chair, 
and turned round to us. 

“Well, I declare,” said she, “ I must be growing 
stupid. Here have I been writing to the Agency, 
when I know of the very thing myself! The Pol- 
wheedles’ governess is just leaving them; she’s 
been there over fifteen years. Lady Pol wheedle 
told me she was a treasure. I wonder if she’d go ! ” 

“ Is she what mamma wants? ” 

“ My dear, you’U be most lucky to get her. I’ll 
write at once and ask her to come to lunch to-mor- 
row. I met her there. She’s an admirable person.” 

Mrs. Hilary wheeled round again. I shook my 
head at Miss PhyUis. 


90 


A REMINISCENCE 


‘‘ Poor children ! ” said I. “ Manage a bit of fun 
for them sometimes.” 

Miss Phyllis assumed a staid and virtuous air. 

“ They must be properly brought up, Mr. Car- 
ter,” said she. 

“Is there a House Opposite?” I asked; and 
Miss Phyllis blushed. ^ 

Mrs. Hilary advanced, holding out a letter. 

“ You may as well post this for me,” said she. 
“Oh, and would you hke to come to lunch to- 
morrow ? ” 

“ To meet the Paragon ? ” 

“No. She’ll be there, of course; but you see 
it’s Saturday, and Hilary will be here; and I 
thought you might take him off somewhere and 
leave Phyllis and me to have a quiet talk with 
her.” 

“That won’t amuse her much,” I ventured to 
remark. 

“She’s not coming to be amused^" said Mrs. 
Hilary severely. 

“ All right ; I’ll come,” said I, taking my hat. 

“Here’s the note for Miss Bannerman,” said 
Mrs. Hilary. 

That sort of thing never surprises me. I looked 
at the letter and read “ Miss M. E. Bannerman.” 
“ M. E.” stood for “ Maud Elizabeth.” I put my 
hat back on the table. 

“ What sort of a looking person is this Miss 
Bannerman ? ” I asked. 

“ Oh, a spare, upright woman — hair a little gray, 
91 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


and — I don’t know how to describe it — her face 
looks a little weather-beaten. She wears glasses.” 

“Thank you,” said I. “And what sort of a 
looking person am I ? ” 

Mrs. Hilary looked scornful. Miss Phyllis opened 
her eyes. 

“ How old do I look, Miss Phyllis ? ” I asked. 

Miss Phyllis scanned me from top to toe. 

“ I don’t know,” she said uncomfortably. 

“ Guess,” said I sternly. 

“ F-forty -three — oh, or forty-two?” she asked, 
with a timid upward glance. 

“ When you’ve done your nonsense — ” began 
Mrs. Hilary ; but I laid a hand on her arm. 

“ Should you call me fat? ” I asked. 

“ Oh, no, not fat,' said Mrs. Hilary, with a 
smile, which she strove to render reassuring. 

“ I am undoubtedly bald,” I observed. 

“ You’re certainly bald,” said Mrs. Hilary, with 
regretful candotir. 

I took my hat and remarked : 

“ A man has a right to think of himself but I 
am not thinking mainly of myself. I shall not 
come to lunch.” 

“ You said you would,” cried Mrs. Hilary indig- 
nantly. 

I poised the letter in my hand, reading again, 
“ Miss M(aud) E(lizabeth) Bannerman.” Miss 
Phyllis looked at me curiously, Mrs. Hilary im- 
patiently. 

“Who knows,” said I, “that I may not be a 
92 


A REMINISCENCE 

R.oiii3,nc0 9» 'V H/iiislicd. Drc&in — s, Green IVIemory 
— an Oasis? A person who has the fortune to be 
an Oasis, Miss Phyllis, should be very careful. I 
will not come to lunch.” 

“Do you mean that you used to know Miss 
Bannerman ? ” asked Mrs. Hilary in her pleasant 
prosaic way. 

It was a sin seventeen years old : it would hardly 
count against the blameless Miss Bannerman now. 

“You may tell her when I’m gone,” said I to 
Miss Phyllis. 

Miss Phyllis whispered in Mrs. Hilary’s ear. 

“Another! ” cried Mrs. Hilary, aghast. 

“ It was the very first,” said I, defending myself. 

Mrs. Hilary began to laugh. I smoothed my 
hat. 

“ Tell her,” said I, “that I remembered her very 
well.” 

“ I shall do no such thing,” said Mrs. Hilary. 

“And tell her,” I continued, “that I am still 
handsome.” 

“ I sha’n’t say a word about you,” said Mrs. 
Hilary. 

“ Ah, well, that will be better still,” said I. 

“She’ll have forgotten your very name,” re- 
marked Mrs. Hilary. 

I opened the door, but a thought struck me. I 
turned round and observed : 

“ I dare say her hair’s just as soft as ever. 
Still — I’ll lunch some other day.” 


93 


XIV 


A FINE DAY 

“ I SEE nothing whatever to laugh at,” said Mrs. 
Hilary coldly, when I had finished. 

“ I did not ask you to laugh,” I observed mil dly 
“ I mentioned it merely as a typical case.” 

“ It’s not typical,” she said, and took up her 
embroidery. But a moment later she added, 

“ Poor boy ! I’m not surprised ! ” 

“ I’m not surprised either,” I remarked. “ It is, 
however, extremely deplorable.” 

“ It’s your own fault. Why did you introduce 
him ?” 

“A book,”, I observed, “might be written on 
the Injustice of the Just. How could I suppose 
that he would ? ” 

By the way, I may as well state what he— that 
is, my young cousin George— had done. Unless 
one is a genius, it is best to aim at being intelligible. 

W^ell, he was in love ; and with a view of pro- 
viding him with another house at which he might 
be likely to meet the adored object, I presented 
him to my friend Lady Mickleham. T^hat was on 
a Tuesday. A fortnight later, as I was sitting in 
Hyde Park (as I sometimes do), George came up 
and took the chair next to me. I gave him a 


A FINE DAY 


cigarette, but made no remark. George beat his 
cane restlessly against the leg of his trousers. 

“ I Ve got to go up to-morrow,” he remarked. 

“ Ah, well, Oxford is a delightful town,” said I. 

“ D — d hole,” observed George. 

I was about to contest this opinion when a 
victoria drove by. 

A girl sat in it, side by side with a portly lady. 

“ George, George ! ” I cried. ‘‘ There she is — 
Look I ” 

George looked, raised his hat with sufficient 
politeness, and remarked to me, 

“ Hang it, one sees those people everywhere.” 

I am not easily surprised, but I confess I turned 
to George with an expression of wonder. 

‘‘ A fortnight ago — ” I began. 

“Don’t be an ass, Sam,” said George, rather 
sharply. “ She’s not a bad girl, but — ” He broke 
off and began to whistle. 

There was a long pause. I lit a cigar, and looked 
at the people. 

“I lunched at the Micklehams’ to-day,” said 
George, drawing a figure on the gravel with his 
cane. “ Mickleham’s not a bad fellow.” 

“ One of the best fellows alive,” I agreed. 

“I wonder why she married him, though,” 
mused George ; and he added, with apparent irrele- 
vance, “ It’s a dashed bore, going up.” And then 
a smile spread over his face ; a blush accompanied 
it, and proclaimed George’s sense of delicious wick- 
edness. I turned on him. 

95 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ Out with it ! ” said I. 

“ It’s nothing. Don’t be a fool,” said George. 

“ Where did you get that rose ? ” I asked. 

‘‘ This rose ? ” he repeated, fondling the blossom. 
‘‘ It was given to me.” 

Upon this I groaned — and I still consider that I 
had good reason for my action. It was the groan 
of a moralist. 

“ They’ve asked me to stay at The Towers next 
vac.,” said George, glancing at me out of the corner 
of an immoral eye. Perhaps he thought it too 
immoral, for he added, “It’s all right, Sam.” I 
believe that I have as much self-control as most 
people, but at this point I chuckled. 

“ What the deuce are you laughing at ? ” asked 
George. 

I made no answer, and he went on — 

“ You never told me what a — what she was like, 
Sam. Wanted to keep it to yourself, you old dog.” 

“ George— George— George ! ” said I. “You 
go up to-morrow ? ” 

“ Yes, confound it ! ” 

“ And term lasts two months ? ” 

“ Yes — hang it ! ” 

“ All is well,” said I, crossing my legs. “ There 
is more virtue in two months than in Ten Com- 
mandments.” 

George regarded me with a dispassionate air. 

“You’re an awful ass sometimes,” he observed 
critically, and he rose from his seat. 

“ Must you go ? ” said I. 

96 


A FINE DAY 


“ Yes — ^got a lot of things to do. Look here, 
Sam, don’t go and talk about ” 

“ Talk about what ? ” 

“ Anything, you old idiot,” said George, with a 
pleased smile, and he dug me in the ribs with his 
cane, and departed. 

I sat on, admiring the simple elements which 
constitute the happiness of the young. Alas 1 
with advancing years. Wrong loses half its flavour I 
To be improper ceases, by itself, to satisfy. 

Immersed in these reflections, I failed to notice 
that a barouche had stopped opposite to me ; and 
suddenly I found a footman addressing me. 

‘‘Beg your pardon, sir,” he said. “Her lady- 
ship wishes to speak to you.” 

“ It is a blessed thing to be young, Martin,” I 
observed. 

“Yes, sir,” said Martin. “It’s a flne day, 
sir.” 

“ But very short,” said I. Martin is respectful, 
and said nothing — to me, at least. What he said 
to the coachman, I don’t know. 

And then I went up to Dolly. 

“ Get in and drive round,” suggested Dolly. 

“ I can’t,” said I. “ I have a bad nose.” 

“What’s the matter with your nose?” asked 
Dolly, smiling. 

“ The joint is injured,” said I, getting into the 
barouche. And I added severely, “ I suppose I’d 
better sit with my back to the horses ? ” 

“ Oh, no, you’re not my husband,” said Dolly. 

97 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 

“Sit here;” and she made room by her, as she 
continued, “ I rather like Mr. George.” 

“ I’m ashamed of you,” I observed. ‘‘ Consider- 
ing your age ” 

“ Mr. Carter 1 ” 

“Considering, I say, his age, your conduct is 
scandalous. I shall never introduce any nice boys 
to you again.” 

“ Oh, please do,” said Dolly, clasping her hands. 

“You give them roses,” said I, accusingly. 
“ You make them false to their earliest loves ” 

“ She was a pudding-faced thing,” observed Dolly. 

I frowned. Dolly^ by an accident, allowed the 
tip of her finger to touch my arm for an instant. 

“ He’s a nice boy,” said she. “ How hke he is 
to you, Mr. Carter ! ” 

“ I am a long way past that,” said I. “ I am 
thirty-six.” 

“ If you mean to be disagreeable ! ” said she, 
turning away. “ I beg your pardon for touching 
you, Mr. Carter.” 

“ I did not notice it. Lady Mickleham.” 

“ Would you like to get out ? ” 

“ It’s miles from my club,” said I discontentedly. 

“ He’s such fun,” said Dolly, with a sudden 
smile. “He told Archie that I was the most 
charming woman in London 1 You’ve never done 
that!” 

“ He said the same about the pudding-faced girl,” 
I observed. 

There was a pause. Then Dolly asked : 

“ How is your nose ? ” 


98 


A FINE DAY 


“ The carriage-exercise is doing it good,” said I. 

“ If,” observed Dolly, “ he is so silly now, what 
will he be at your age ? ” 

“ A wise man,” said I. 

“ He suggested that I might write to him,” bub- 
bled Dolly. 

Now when Dolly bubbles — an operation which 
includes a sudden turn towards me, a dancing of 
eyes, a dart of a small hand, a hurried rush of 
words, checked and confused by a speedier gust 
of gurgling sound — I am in the habit of ceasing to 
argue the question. Bubbling is not to be met by 
arguing. I could only say : 

“ He’ll have forgotten by the end of the term.” 

“ He’ll remember two days later,” retorted Dolly. 

“ Stop the carriage,” said I. “ I shall tell Mrs. 
Hilary all about it.” 

“ I won’t stop the carriage,” said Dolly. “ I’m 
going to take you home with me.” 

‘‘ I am at a premium to-day,” I said sardonically. 

‘‘ One must have something,” said Dolly. “ How 
is your nose now, Mr. Carter ? ” 

I looked at Dolly. I had better not have done 
that. 

‘‘Would afternoon tea hurt it?” she inquired 
anxiously. 

“ It would do it good,” said I decisively. 

And that is absolutely the whole story. And 
what in the world Mrs. Hilary found to disapprove 
of I don’t know— especially as I didn’t tell her half 
of it ! But she did disapprove. However, she looks 

very well when she disapproves. 

99 


XV 


THE HOUSE OPPOSITE 

We were talking over the sad case of young Algy 
Groom ; I was explaining to Mrs. Hilary exactly 
what had happened. 

“His father gave him,” said I, “a hundred 
pounds, to keep him for three months in Paris 
while he learnt French.” 

“ And very liberal too,” said Mrs. Hilary. 

“ It depends where you dine,” said I. “ How- 
ever, that question did not arise, for Algy went to 
the Grand Prix the day after he arrived ” 

“ A horse race ? ” asked Mrs. Hilary with great 
contempt. 

“Certainly the competitors are horses,” I re- 
joined. “ And there he, most unfortunately, lost 
the whole sum, without learning any French to 
speak of.” 

“ How disgusting ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Hilary, and 
little Miss Phyllis gasped in horror. 

“ Oh, well,” said Hilary, with much bravery (as 
it struck me), “ his father’s very well off.” 

“ That doesn’t make it a bit better,” declared his 
wife. 

“ There’s no mortal sin in a little betting, my 

dear. Boys will be boys ” 

100 


THE HOUSE OPPOSITE 


“ And even that,” I interposed, ‘‘ wouldn’t mat- 
ter if we could only prevent girls from being girls.” 

Mrs. Hilary, taking no notice whatever of me, 
pronounced sentence. “He grossly deceived his 
father,” she said, and took up her embroidery. 

“ Most of us have grossly deceived our parents 
before now,” said I. “ W^e should all have to con- 
fess to something of the sort.” 

“ I hope you’re speaking for your own sex,” ob- 
served Mrs. Hilary. 

“ Not more than yours,” said I. “ You used to 
meet Hilary on the pier when your father wasn’t 
there — you told me so.” 

“Father had authorised my acquaintance with 
Hilary.” 

“ I hate quibbles,” said I. 

There was a pause. Mrs. Hilary stitched : Hil- 
ary observed that the day was fine. 

“ Now,” I pursued carelessly, “even Miss PhylUs 
here has been known to deceive her parents.” 

“Oh, let the poor child alone, anyhow,” said 
Mrs. Hilary. 

“ Haven’t you ? ” said I to Miss Phyllis. 

I expected an indignant denial. So did Mrs. 
Hilary, for she remarked with a sympathetic air, 

“ Never mind his folly, Phyllis dear.” 

“ Haven’t you. Miss Phyllis ? ” said I. 

Miss Phylhs grew very red. Fearing that I was 
causing her pain, I was about to observe on the 
prospects of a Dissolution when a shy smile spread 
over Miss Phylhs ’s face. 

101 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ Yes, once,” said she with a timid glance at Mrs. 
Hilary, who immediately laid down her embroidery. 

“ Out with it,” I cried, triumphantly. “ Come 
along. Miss Phyllis. W e won’t tell, honor bright 1 ” 

Miss Phylhs looked again at Mrs. Hilary. Mrs. 
Hilary is human : 

“ Well, Phyllis dear,” said she, “ after all this time 
I shouldn’t think it my duty ” 

“ It only happened last summer,” said Miss 
Phyllis. 

Mrs. Hilary looked rather put out. 

“ Still,” she began — 

“We must have the story,” said I. 

Little Miss Phyllis put down the sock she had 
been knitting. 

“ I was very naughty,” she remarked. ‘ ‘ It was 
my last term at school.” 

“ I know that age,” said I to Hilary. 

“My window looked out towards the street. 
You’re sure you won’t tell ? Well, there was a 
house opposite ” 

‘ ‘ And a young man in it,” said I. 

“ How did you know that ? ” asked Miss Phyllis, 
blushing immensely. 

“No girls’ school can keep up its numbers with- 
out one,” I explained. 

“Well, there was, anyhow,” said Miss Phyllis. 
“ And I and two other girls went to a course of 
lectures at the Town Hall on literature or some- 
thing of that kind. We used to have a shilling 
given us for our tickets.” 

102 


THE HOUSE OPPOSITE 


“ Precisely,” said I. “A hundred pounds ! ” 

“No, a shilling,” corrected Miss Phyllis. “A 
hundred pounds ! How absurd, Mr. Carter ! Well, 
one day I — I ” 

“You’re sure you wish to go on, Phyllis?” 
asked Mrs. Hilary. 

“ You’re afraid, Mrs. Hilary,” said I severely. 

“Nonsense, Mr. Carter. I thought Phyllis 
might ” 

“ I don’t mind going on,” said Miss Phylhs, smil- 
ing. “ One day I — I lost the other girls.” 

“ The other girls are always easy to lose,” I ob- 
served. 

“ And on the way there — oh, you know, he went 
to the lectures.” 

“ The young dog,” said I, nudging Hilary. “ I 
should think he did ! ” 

“ On the way there it became rather — rather 

foggy.” . 

“ Blessings on it ! ” I cried; for little Miss Phyl- 
lis’s demure but roguish expression delighted 
me. 

“ And he — he found me in the fog.” 

“ What are you doing, Mr. Carter ? ” cried Mrs. 
Hilary angrily. 

“Nothing, nothing,” said I. I believe I had 
winked at Hilary. 

“ And — and we couldn’t find the Town Hall.” 

“ Oh, PhyUis ! ” groaned Mrs. Hilary. 

Little Miss Phyllis looked alarmed for a moment. 
Then she smiled. 


103 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 

“ But we found the confectioner’s,” said she. 

“ The Grand Prioc^^ said I, pointing my fore- 
finger at Hilary. 

“ He had no money at all,” said Miss Phyllis. 

“ It’s ideal ! ” said I. 

“ And — and we had tea on — on ” 

“ The shilling ? ” I cried in rapture. 

“Yes,” said little Miss Phylhs, “on the shilHng. 
And he saw me home.” 

“Details, please,” said I. 

Little Miss Phylhs shook her head. 

“ And left me at the door.” 

“ Was it still foggy ? ” I asked. 

“ Yes. Or he wouldn’t have ” 

“ Now what did he ? ” 

“ Come to the door, Mr. Carter,” said Miss 
PhyUis, with obvious wariness. “ Oh, and it was 
such fun ! ” 

“ I’m sure it was.” 

“ No, I mean when we were examined in the 
lectures. I bought the local paper, you know, and 
read it up, and I got top marks easily, and Miss 
Green wrote to mother to say how well I had 
done.” 

“ It ah ends most satisfactorily,” I observed. 

“Yes, didn’t it?” said little Miss Phyllis. 

Mrs. Hilary was grave again. 

“ And you never told your mother, PhyUis ? ” 
she asked. 

“N-no, Cousin Mary,” said Miss Phyllis. 

I rose and stood with my back to the fire. Lit- 
104 


THE HOUSE OPPOSITE 


tie Miss Phyllis took up her sock again, but a smile 
still played about the corners of her mouth. 

“ I wonder,” said I, looking up at the ceiling, 
“what happened at the door.” Then, as no one 
spoke, I added : 

“ Pooh ! I know what happened at the door.” 

“ I’m not going to tell you anything more,” said 
Miss Phyllis. 

“ But I should like to hear it in your own ” 

Miss Phyllis was gone ! She had suddenly risen 
and run from the room ! 

“ It did happen at the door,” said I. 

“ Fancy Phyllis ! ” mused Mrs. Hilary. 

“ I hope,” said I, “ that it will be a lesson to 
you.” 

“ I shall have to keep my eye on her,” said Mrs. 
Hilary. 

“ You can’t do it,” said I in easy confidence. I 
had no fear of little Miss Phyllis being done out of 
her recreations. “Meanwhile,” I pursued, “the 
important thing is this: my parallel is obvious and 
complete.” 

“There’s not the least likeness,” said Mrs. Hil- 
ary sharply. 

“ As a hundred pounds are to a shilling so is 
the Grand Prix to the young man opposite,” I ob- 
served, taking my hat, and holding out my hand to 
Mrs. Hilary. 

“ I am very angry with you,” she said. “ You’ve 
made the child think there was nothing wrong 
in it.” 


.8 


105 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


‘‘ Oh I nonsense, ” said I. “ Look how she en- 
joyed telling it.” 

Then, not heeding Mrs. Hilary, I launched into 
an apostrophe. 

“ O, divine House Opposite ! ” I cried. ‘‘ Charm- 
ing House Opposite I What is a man’s own dull 
uneventful home compared with that Glorious 
House Opposite ! If only I might dwell for ever 
in the House Opposite ! ” 

“ I haven’t the least notion what you mean,” re- 
marked Mrs. Hilary, stiffly. “ I suppose it’s some- 
thing silly — or worse.” 

I looked at her in some puzzle. 

‘‘Have you no longing for the House Oppo- 
site ?” I asked. 

Mrs. Hilary looked at me. Her eyes ceased to 
be absolutely blank. She put her arm through 
Hilary’s and answered gently — 

“ I don’t want the House Opposite.” 

“ Ah,” said I, giving my hat a brush, “ but may- 
be you remember the House— when it was Oppo- 
site ? ” 

Mrs. Hilary, one arm still in Hilary’s, gave me 
her hand. 

She blushed and smiled. 

“Well,” said she, “ it was your fault: so I won’t 
scold Phyllis.” 

“No, don’t, my dear,” said Hilary, with a laugh. 

As for me, I went downstairs, and, in absence of 
mind, bade my cabman drive to the House Oppo- 
site. But I have never got there. 

106 


XVI 


A QUICK CHANGE 

“Why not go with Archie?” I asked, spreading 
out my hands. 

“ It will be dull enough, anyhow,” said Dolly, 
fretfully. “ Besides, it’s awfully bourgeois to go to 
the theatre with one’s husband.” 

“ Bourgeois^" I observed, “ is an epithet which 
the riff-raff apply to what is respectable, and the 
aristocracy to what is decent.” 

“ But it’s not a nice thing to be, all the same,” 
said Dolly, who is impervious to the most penetrat- 
ing remark. 

“ You’re in no danger of it,” I hastened to assure 
her. 

“ How should you describe me, then ? ” she 
asked, leaning forward, with a smile. 

“I should describe you. Lady Mickleham,” I 
replied discreetly, “ as being a little lower than the 
angels.” 

Dolly’s smile was almost a laugh as she asked, 

“How much lower, please, Mr. Carter ? ” 

“Just by the depth of your dimples,” said I 
thoughtlessly. 

Dolly became immensely grave. 

“ I thought,” said she, “ that we never mentioned 
them now, Mr. Carter.” 


107 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ Did we ever ? ” I asked innocently. 

“ I seemed to remember once : do you recollect 
being in very low spirits one evening at Monte ? ” 

“ I remember being in very low water more than 
one evening there.” 

“ Yes : you told me you were terribly hard-up.” 

“ There was an election in our division that year,” 
I remarked, “and I remitted 30 per cent, of my 
rents.” 

“ You did — ^to M. Blanc,” said Dolly. “ Oh, and 
you were very dreary ! You said you’d wasted 
your life and your time and your opportunities.” 

“ Oh, you mustn’t suppose I never have any 
proper feelings,” said I complacently. 

“ I think you were hardly yourself.” 

“ Do be more charitable.” 

“And you said that your only chance was in 
gaining the affection of ” 

“ Surely I was not such an — so foolish ? ” I im- 
plored. 

“Yes, you were. You were sitting close by 


“ Oh, then, it doesn’t count,” said I, rallying a 
little. 

“ On a bench. You remember the bench ? ” 
“No, I don’t,” said I, with a kind but firm smile. 
“ Not the bench ? ” 

“No.” 

Dolly looked at me, then she asked in an insinu- 
ating tone — 

“ When did you forget it, Mr. Carter ? ” 

108 


A QUICK CHANGE 


“ The day you were buried,” I rejoined. 

“ I see. W ell, you said then what you couldn’t 
possibly have meant.” 

‘‘ I dare say. I often did.” 

“ That they were ” 

That what were ? ” 

“ Why, the — the — what were talking about.” 

“What we were — ? Oh, to be sure, the — the 
blemishes ? ” 

“Yes, the blemishes. You said they were the 
most ” 

“ Oh, well, it was a fa^on de parlerr 

“ I was afraid you weren’t a bit sincere,” said 
Dolly humbly. 

“Well, judge me by yourself,” said I with a can- 
did air. 

“ But I said nothing! ” cried Dolly. 

“ It was incomparably the most artistic thing to 
do,” said I. 

“ I’m sometimes afraid you don’t do me justice, 
Mr. Carter,” remarked Dolly with some pathos. 

I did not care to enter upon that discussion, and 
a pause followed. Then Dolly, in a timid manner, 
asked me — 

“ Do you remember the dreadful thing that 
happened the same evening ? ” 

“ That chances to remain in my memory,” I ad- 
mitted. 

“ I’ve always thought it kind of you never to 
speak of it,” said she. 

“ It is best forgotten,” said I, smiling. 

109 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“We should have said the same about anybody,” 
protested Dolly. 

“ Certainly. We were only trying to be smart,” 
said I. 

“And it was horribly unjust.” 

“ I quite agree with you, Lady Mickleham.” 

“Besides, I didn’t know anything about him 
then. He had only arrived that day, you see.” 

“ Really we were not to blame,” I urged. 

“ Oh but doesn’t it seem funny ? ” 

“ A strange whirhgig, no doubt,” I mused. 

There was a pause. Then the faintest of smiles 
appeared on Dolly’s face. 

“ He shouldn’t have worn such clothes,” she said, 
as though in self-defence. “ Anybody would have 
looked absurd in them.” 

“It was all the clothes,” I agreed. “Besides, 
when a man doesn’t know a place, he always moons 
about and looks ” 

“ Yes. Rather awkward, doesn’t he, Mr. Carter? ” 

“ And the mere fact of his looking at you ” 

“ At us, please.” 

“ Is nothing, although we made a grievance of it 
at the time.” 

“ That was very absurd of you,” said Dolly. 

“ It was certainly unreasonable of us,” said I. 

“We ought to have known he was a gentleman.” 

“ But we scouted the idea of it,” said I. 

“ It was a most curious mistake to make,” said 
Dolly. 

“ Oh, well, it’s all put right now,” said I. 

110 


A QUICK CHANGE 


“ Oh, Mr. Carter, do you remember mamma’s 
face when we described him ? ” 

“ That was a terrible moment,” said I, with a 
shudder. 

“ I said he was — ugly,” whispered Dolly. 

“ And I said — something worse,” murmured I. » 

“ And mamma knew at once from our descrip- 
tion that it was ” 

‘‘ She saw it in a minute,” said I. 

“ And then you went away.” 

“Well, I rather suppose I did,” said I. 

“ Mamma is just a httle hke the Dowager some- 
times,” said Dolly. 

“ There is a touch now and then,” I conceded. 

“ And when I was introduced to him the next 
day I absolutely blushed.” 

“ I don’t altogether wonder at that,” I ob- 
served. 

“ But it wasn’t as if he’d heard what we were 
saying.” 

“No; but he’d seen what we were doing.” 

“Well, what were we doing? ” cried Dolly de- 
fiantly. 

“ Conversing confidentially,” said I. 

“ And a week later you went home 1 ” 

“ Just one week later,” said I. 

There was a long pause. 

“Well, you’ll take me to the theatre?” asked 
Dolly, with something which, if I were so disposed, 
I might consider a sigh. 

“ I’ve seen the piece twice,” said I. 

Ill 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ How tiresome of you ! You’ve seen everything 
twice.” 

‘‘I’ve seen some things much oftener,” I ob- 
served. 

“ I’ll get a nice girl for you to talk to, and I’ll 
have a young man.” 

“ I don’t want my girl to be too I observed. 

“ She shall be pretty,” said Dolly generously. 

“ I don’t mind if I do come with you,” said I. 
“ What becomes of Archie ? ” 

“ He’s going to take his mother and sisters to the 
Albert Hall.” 

My face brightened. 

“ I am unreasonable,” I admitted. 

“ Sometimes you are,” said Dolly. 

“ I have much to be thankful for. Have you 
ever observed a small boy eat a penny ice ? ” 

“ Of course I have,” said Dolly. 

“ What does he do when he’s finished it ? ” 

“ Stops, I suppose.” 

“ On the contrary,” said I. “ He licks the glass.” 

“Yes, he does,” said Dolly meditatively. 

“ It’s not so bad — licking the glass,” said I. 

Dolly stood opposite me, smiling. At this mo- 
ment Archie entered. He had been working at 
his lathe. He is very fond of making things which 
he doesn’t want, and then giving them to people 
who have no use for them. 

“ How are you, old chap ? ” he began. “ I’ve 
just finished an uncommon pretty ” 

He stopped, paralysed by a cry from Dolly — 

112 


A QUICK CHANGE 


“ Archie, what in the world are you wearing ? ” 

I turned a startled gaze upon Archie. 

“ It’s just an old suit I routed out,” said he apol- 
ogetically. 

I looked at Dolly; her eyes were close shut, and 
she gasped — ^ 

“ My dear, dear boy, go and change it ! ” 

“ I don’t see why it’s not ” 

“ Go and change it, if you love me,” besought 
Dolly. 

“ Oh, all right.” 

“You look hideous in it,” she said, her eyes still 
shut. 

Archie, who is very docile, withdrew. A guilty 
silence reigned for some moments. Then Dolly 
opened her eyes. 

“ It was the suit, ” she said, with a shudder. “ Oh, 
how it all came back to me ! ” 

“ I could wish,” I observed, taking my hat, 
“ that it would all come back to me.” 

“ I wonder if you mean that ! ” 

“ As much as I ever did,” said I earnestly. 

“ And that is ? ” 

“ Quite enough.” 

“How tiresome you are!” she said, turning 
away with a smile. 

Outside I met Archie in another suit. 

“ A quick change, eh, my boy ? ” said he. 

“ It took just a week,” I remarked absently. 
Archie stared. 


113 


XVII 


A SLIGHT MISTAKE 

“ I don’t ask you for more than a guinea,” said 
Mrs. Hilary, with a parade of forbearance. 

“ It would be the same,” I replied politely, ‘‘ if 
you asked me for a thousand ; ” with which I handed 
her half-a-crown. She held it in her open hand, 
regarding it scornfully. 

“Yes,” I continued, taking a seat, “I feel that 
pecuniary gifts ” 

“ Half-a-crown ! ” 

“ Are a poor substitute for personal service. May 
not I accompany you to the ceremony ? ” 

“ I dare say you spent as much as this on wine 
with your lunch ! ” 

“ I was in a mad mood to-day,” I answered apol- 
ogetically. “ What are they taught at the school ? ” 

“ Above all, to be good girls,” said Mrs. Hilary 
earnestly. “ What are you sneering at, Mr. Car- 
ter?” 

“ Nothing,” said I hastily, and I added with a 
sigh, “ I suppose it’s all right.” 

“ I should like,” said Mrs. Hilary meditatively, 
“ if I had not other duties, to dedicate my life to 
the service of girlso” 

“ I should think twice about that, if I were you,” 
said I, shaking my head. 

114 


A SLIGHT MISTAKE 


“ By the way, Mr. Carter, I don’t know if I’ve 
ever spoken unkindly of Lady Mickleham. I hope 
not.” 

“ Hope,” said I, “ is not yet taxed.” 

“ If I have. I’m very sorry. She’s been most 
kind in undertaking to give away the prizes to-day. 
There must be some good in her.” 

“ Oh, don’t be hasty ! ” I implored. 

“ I always wanted to think well of her.” 

“ Ah ! Now I never did.” 

And Lord Mickleham is coming, too. He’ll 
be most useful.” 

“ That settles it,” I exclaimed. “ I may not be 
an earl, but I have a perfect right to be useful. I’ll 
go too.” 

‘‘ I wonder if you’ll behave properly,” said Mrs. 
Hilary doubtfully. 

I held out a half-sovereign, three half-crowns, and 
a shilling. 

“ Oh, well, you may come, since Hilary can’t,” 
said Mrs. Hilary. 

‘‘ You mean he won’t,” I observed. 

“He has always been prevented hitherto,” said 
she, with dignity. 

So I went, and it proved a most agreeable expe- 
dition. There were 200 girls in blue frocks and 
white aprons (the girl three from the end of the 
fifth row was decidedly pretty) — a nice lot of prize 
books — the Micklehams (Holly in demure black), 
ourselves, and the matron. All went well. Dolly 
gave away the prizes ; Mrs. Hilary and Archie 
115 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


made little speeches. Then the matron came to 
me. I was sitting modestly at the back of the plat- 
form, a little distance behind the others. 

“ Mr. Musgrave,” said the matron to me, “ we’re 
so glad to see you here at last. Won’t you say a 
few words ? ” 

‘‘ It would be a privilege,” I responded cordially, 
‘‘ but unhappily I have a sore throat. ” 

The matron (who was a most respectable woman) 
said, “ Dear, dear ! ” but did not press the point. 
Evidently, however, she liked me, for when we went 
to have a cup of tea, she got me in a corner and be- 
gan to tell me all about the work. It was extreme- 
ly interesting. Then the matron observed, 

“ And what an angel Mrs. Musgrave is ! ” 

“ W ell, I should hardly caU her that,” said I, with 
a smile. 

Oh, you mustn’t depreciate her — you, of all 
men ! ” cried the matron, with a somewhat ponder- 
ous archness. ‘‘ Really I envy you her constant 
society.” 

“ I assure you,” said I, ‘‘ I see very httle of her.” 

“ I beg your pardon ? ” 

“ I only go to the house about once a fortnight 
— Oh, it’s not my fault. She won’t have me there 
oftener.” 

‘‘ What do you mean? I beg your pardon. Per- 
haps I’ve touched on a painful ? ” 

‘‘ Not at all, not at all,” said I suavely. ‘‘It is 
very natural. I am neither young nor handsome, 
Mrs. Wiggins. I am not complaining.” 

116 


A SLIGHT MISTAKE 


The matron gazed at me. 

“ Only seeing her here,” I pursued, ‘‘ you have 
no idea of what she is at home. She has chosen to 
forbid me to come to her house ” 

‘‘ Her house ? ” 

‘‘ It happens to be more hers than mine,” I ex- 
plained. “ To forbid me, I say, more than once 
to come to her house. No doubt she had her 
reasons.” 

‘‘ Nothing could justify it,” said the matron, di- 
recting a wondering glance at Mrs. Hilary. 

“ Do not let us blame her,” said I. “ It is just 
an unfortunate accident. She is not as fond of me 
as I could wish, Mrs. Wiggins; and she is a great 
deal fonder than I could wish of ” 

I broke off. Mrs. Hilary was walking towards 
us. I think she was pleased to see me getting on 
so well with the matron, for she was smiling pleas- 
antly. The matron wore a bewildered expres- 
sion. 

‘‘ I suppose,” said Mrs. Hilary, ‘‘ that you’ll drive 
back with the Micklehams ? ” 

‘‘ Unless you want me,” said I, keeping a watch- 
ful eye on the matron. 

“ Oh, I don’t want you,” said Mrs. Hilary 
lightly. 

“You won’t be alone this evening?” I asked 
anxiously. 

Mrs. Hilary stared a little. 

“ Oh, no ! ” she said. “We shall have our usual 
party.” 


117 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ May I come one day next week ? ” I asked 
humbly. 

Mrs. Hilary thought for a moment. 

“ I’m so busy next week — come the week after,” 
said she, giving me her hand. 

“ That’s very unkind,” said I. 

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Hilary, and she added, 
“ Mind you let me know when you’re coming.” 

“ I won’t surprise you,” I assured her, with a 
covert glance at the matron. 

The excellent woman was quite red in the face, 
and could gasp out nothing but “Good-bye,” as 
Mrs. Hilary affectionately pressed her hand. 

At this moment Dolly came up. She was 
alone. 

“ Where’s Archie ? ” I asked. 

“ He’s run away; he’s got to meet somebody. I 
knew you’d see me home. Mrs. Hilary didn’t want 
you, of course ? ” 

“ Of course not,” said I plaintively. 

“ Besides, you’d rather come with me, wouldn’t 
you ? ” pursued Dolly, and she added pleasantly to 
the matron, “ Mrs. Hilary’s so down on him, you 
know.” 

“ I’d much rather come with you,” said I. 

“We’ll have a cosy drive all to ourselves,” said 
Dolly, “without husbands or wives or anything 
horrid. Isn’t it nice to get rid of one’s husband 
sometimes, Mrs. Wiggins? ” 

“ I have the misfortune to be a widow. Lady 
Mickleham,” said Mrs. Wiggins. 

118 


A SLIGHT MISTAKE 


Dolly’s eye rested upon her with an interested 
expression. I knew that she was about to ask Mrs. 
Wiggins whether she liked the condition of life, and 
I interposed hastily, with a sigh, 

“ But you can look back on a happy marriage, 
Mrs. Wiggins ? ” 

“ I did my best to make it so,” said she stiffly. 

“You’re right,” said I. “Even in the face of 
unkindness we should strive ” 

“ My husband’s not unkind,” said Dolly. 

“ I didn’t mean your husband,” said I. 

“ What your poor wife would do if she cared a 
button for you, I don’t know,” observed Dolly. 

“ If I had a wife who cared for me, I should be 
a better man,” said I solemnly. 

“ But you’d probably be very dull,” said Dolly. 
“ And you wouldn’t be allowed to drive with me.” 

“ Perhaps it’s all for the best,” said I, brighten- 
ing up. “ Goorf-bye, Mrs. Wiggins.” 

Dolly walked on. Mrs. Wiggins held my hand 
for a moment. 

“ Young man,” said she sternly, “ are you sure 
it’s not your own fault ? ” 

“ I’m not at all sure, Mrs. Wiggins,” said I. 
“ But don’t be distressed about it. It’s of no con- 
sequence. I don’t let it make me unhappy. Good- 
bye; so many thanks. Charming girls you have 
here — especially that one in the fifth — I mean, 
charming, all of them. Good-bye.” 

I hastened to the carriage. Mrs. Wiggins stood 
and watched. I got in and sat down by Dolly. 

119 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ Oh, Mrs. Wiggins,” said Dolly, dimpling, 
“ don’t tell Mrs. Hilary that Archie wasn’t with 
us, or we shall get into trouble.” And she added 
to me, “ Are you all right ? ” 

“ Rather !” said I appreciatively; and we drove 
off, leaving Mrs. Wiggins on the door-step. 

A fortnight later I went to call on Mrs. Hilary. 
After some conversation she remarked : 

“ I’m going to the school again to-morrow.” 

‘‘ Really ! ” said I. 

“ And I’m so delighted — I’ve persuaded Hilary 
to come.” 

She paused, and then added, 

“ You really seemed interested last time.” 

“ Oh, I was.” 

“ Would you like to come again to-morrow ? ” 

“ No, I think not, thanks,” said I carelessly. 

“ That’s just like you ! ” she said severely. “ You 
never do any real good, because you never stick to 
anything.” 

“There are some things one can’t stick to,” 
said I. 

“ Oh, nonsense ! ” said Mrs. Hilary. 

But there are — and I didn’t go. 


120 


XVIII 


THE OTHER LADY 

“ By the merest chance,” I observed meditatively, 
“ I attended a reception last night.” 

“ I went to three,” said Lady Mickleham, select- 
ing a sardine-sandwich with care. 

‘‘ I might not have gone,” I mused. “ I might 
easily not have gone.” 

“I can’t see what difference it would make if 
you hadn’t,” said she. 

“ I thought three times about going. It’s a curi- 
ous world.” 

“What happened? You may smoke, you 
know.” 

“ 1 fell in love,” said I, hghting a cigarette. 

Lady Mickleham placed her feet on the fender — 
it was a chilly afternoon — and turned her face to 
me, shielding it from the fire with her handker- 
chief. 

“ Men of your age,” she remarked, “ have no 
business to be thinking of such things.” 

“ I was not thinking of it,” said I. “ I was think- 
ing of going home. Then I was introduced to 
her.” 

“ And you stayed a little, I suppose ? ” 

“ I stayed two hours — or two minutes. I forget 
which ; ” and I added, nodding my head at Lady 
9 121 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


Mickleham, “ There was something irresistible 
about me last night.” 

Lady Mickleham laughed. 

“You seem very pleased with yourself,” she said, 
reaching for a fan to replace the handkerchief. 

“ Yes, take care of your complexion,” said I ap- 
provingly. “ She has a lovely complexion.” 

Lady Mickleham laid down the fan. 

“ I am very pleased with myself,” I continued. 
“ She was delighted with me.” 

“ I suppose you talked nonsense to her.” 

“ I have not the least idea what I talked to her. 
It was quite immaterial. The language of the 
eyes ” 

“ Oh, you might be a boy ! ” 

“ I was,” said I, nodding again. 

There was a long silence. Dolly looked at me ; 
I looked at the fire. I did not, however, see the 
fire. I saw something quite different. 

“ She liked me very much,” I observed, stretch- 
ing my hands out towards the blaze. 

“ You absurd old man I ” said Dolly. “ Was she 
very charming ? ” 

“ She was perfect.” 

“How? Clever?” 

I waved my hand impatiently. 

“ Pretty, Mr. Carter ? ” 

“ Why, of course ; the prettiest creature I ever — 
But that goes without saying.” 

“ It would have gone better without saying,” re- 
marked DoUy. ‘‘ Considering ” 

122 


THE OTHER LADY 


To have asked “ Considering what ? ” would have 
been the acme of bad taste. I merely smiled, and 
waved my hand again. 

“ You’re quite serious about it, aren’t you ? ” said 
Dolly. 

“ I should think I was,” said I indignantly. ^ 
“Not to be serious in such a matter is to waste it 
utterly.” 

“ I’ll come to the wedding,” said Dolly. 

“ There won’t be a wedding,” said I. “ There 
are Reasons.” 

“ Oh ! You’re very unlucky, Mr. Carter.” 

“That,” I observed, “is as it may be, Lady 
Mickleham.” 

“ Were the Reasons at the reception ? ” 

“ They were. It made no difference.” 

“ It’s very curious,” remarked Dolly with a com» 
passionate air, “ that you always manage to admire 
people whom somebody else has married.” 

“ It would be very curious,” I rejoined, “ if 
somebody had not married the people whom I 
admire. Last night, though, I made nothing of 
his sudden removal ; my fancy rioted in accidental 
deaths for him.” 

“ He won’t die,” said Dolly. 

“ I hate that sort of superstition,” said I irritably. 
“ He’s just as likely to die as any other man is.” 

“ He certainly won’t die,” said Dolly. 

“ Well, I know he won’t. Do let it alone,” said 
I, much exasperated. It was probably only kind- 
ness, but Dolly suddenly turned her eyes away 
123 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 

from me and fixed them on the fire ; she took the 
fan up again and twirled it in her hand ; a queer 
little smile bent her lips. 

“ I hope the poor man won’t die,” said Dolly in 
a low voice. 

“ If he had died last night ! ” I cried longingly. 
Then, with a regretful shrug of my shoulders, I 
added, “ Let him live now to the crack of doom I ” 

Somehow this restored my good humour. I rose 
and stood with my back to the fire, stretching my- 
self and sighing luxuriously. Dolly leant back in 
her chair and laughed at me. 

“Do you expect to be forgiven ? ” she asked. 

“ No, no,” said I ; “ I had too good an excuse.” 

“ I wish I’d been there — at the reception, I 
mean.” 

“ I’m extremely glad you weren’t. Lady Mickle- 
ham. As it was, I forgot all my troubles.” 

Dolly is not resentful; she did not mind the im- 
plied description. She leant back, smiling still. I 
sighed again, smiled at Dolly, and took my hat. 
Then I turned to the mirror over the mantelpiece, 
arranged my necktie, and gave my hair a touch. 

“No one,” I observed, “can afford to neglect 
the niceties of the toilet. Those dainty httle curls 
on the forehead ” 

“You’ve had none there for ten years,” cried 
Lady Mickleham. 

“ I did not mean my forehead,” said I. 

Sighing once again, I held out my hand to 
Dolly. 


124 


THE OTHER LADY 


“Are you doing anything this evening?” she 
asked. 

“ That depends on what I’m asked to do,” said 
I cautiously. 

“ Well, Archie’s going to be at the House, and I 
thought you might take me to the Phaetons’ party. 
It’s quite a long drive — a horribly long drive, Mr. 
Carter.” 

I stood for a moment considering this proposal. 

“ I don’t think,” said I, “ that it would be 
proper.” 

“ Why, Archie suggested it ! You’re making an 
excuse. You know you are! ’’and Lady Mickle- 
ham looked very indignant. “As if,” she added 
scornfully, “ you cared about what was proper 1 ” 

I dropped into a chair, and said, in a confidential 
tone, “ I don’t care a pin. It was a mere excuse. 
I don’t want to come.” 

“You’re very rude, indeed. Many women 
would never speak to you again.” 

“ They would,” said I, “ all do just as you will.” 

“ And what’s that, Mr. Carter? ” 

“ Ask me again on the first opportunity.” 

“ Why won’t you come ? ” said Dolly, waiving 
this question. 

I bent forward, holding my hat in my left hand, 
and sawing the air with my right forefinger. 

“You fail to allow,” said I impressively, “for 
the rejuvenescence which recent events have pro- 
duced in me. If I came with you this evening I 
should be quite capable I paused. 


125 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ Of an5rthing dreadful ? ” asked Dolly. 

“ Of paying you pronounced attentions,” said I 
gravely. 

“ That,” said Dolly with equal gravity, “would 
be very regrettable. It would be unjust to me — 
and very insulting to her, Mr. Carter.” 

“It would be the finest testimonial to her,” I 
cried. 

“ And youll spend the evening thinking of her ? ” 
asked Dolly. 

“I shall get through the evening,” said I, “in 
the best way I can.” And I smiled contentedly. 

“ What’s her husband ? ” asked Dolly suddenly. 

“Her husband,” I rejoined, “is nothing at all.” 

Dolly, receiving this answer, looked at me with 
a pathetic air. 

“It’s not quite fair,” she observed. “Do you 
know what I’m thinking about, Mr. Carter ? ” 

“ Certainly I do. Lady Mickleham. You are 
thinking that you would hke to meet me for the 
first time.” 

“Not at all. I was thinking that it would be 
amusing if you met me for the first time.” 

I said nothing. Dolly rose and walked to the 
window. She swung the tassel of the blind and it 
bumped against the window. The failing sun 
caught her ruddy brown hair. There were curls 
on her forehead, too. 

“ It’s a grand world,” said I. “ And, after all, 
one can grow old very gradually.” 

“You’re not really old,” said Dolly, with the 
126 


THE OTHER LADY 

fleetest glance at me. A glance should not be 
over-long. 

“ Gradually and disgracefully,” I murmured. 

‘‘If you met me for the first time — ” said 
Dolly, swinging the tassel. 

“By Heaven, it should be the last!” I cried, 
and I rose to my feet. 

Dolly let the tassel go, and made me a very 
pretty curtsey. 

“ I am going to another party to-night,” said I, 
nodding my head significantly. 

“ Ah 1 ” said Dolly. 

“ And I shall again,” I pursued, “ spend my time 
with the prettiest woman in the room.” 

“ Shall you? ” asked Dolly, smiling. 

“ I am a very fortunate fellow,” I observed. 
“ And as for Mrs. Hilary, she may say what she 
likes.” 

“ Oh, does Mrs. Hilary know the— Other Lady ?” 

I walked towards the door. 

“ There is,” said I, laying my hand on the door, 
“ no Other Lady.” 

“ I shall get there about eleven,” said Dolly. 


127 


XIX 


WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN 

Unfortunately it was Sunday; therefore the 
gardeners could not be ordered to shift the long 
row of flower-pots from the side of the terrace next 
the house, where Dolly had ordered them to be 
put, to the side remote from the house, where 
Dolly now wished them to stand. Yet Dolly 
could not think of living with the pots where they 
were till Monday. It would kill her, she said. 
So Archie left the cool shade of the great trees, 
where Dolly sat doing nothing, and Nellie Phaeton 
sat splicing the gig whip, and I lay in a deck- 
chair, with something iced beside me. Outside 
the sun was broiling hot, and poor Archie mopped 
his brow at every weary journey across the broad 
terrace. 

‘‘ It's a burnin’ shame, Dolly,” said Miss Phaeton. 
“ I wouldn’t do it if I were him.” 

“ Oh, yes, you would, dear,” said DoUy. ‘‘ The 
pots looked atrocious on that side.” 

I took a long sip from my glass, and observed in 
a meditative tone : 

“ There, but for the grace of woman, goes Sam- 
uel Travers Carter.” 

Dolly’s lazy lids half lifted. Miss Phaeton 
mumbled (her mouth was full of twine) : 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

128 


WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN 


“ Nemo omnibus horis sapit,'' said I apologetically. 

“ I don’t know what that means either.” 

“ Nemo — everybody,” I translated, “ saj^t — has 
been in love — omnibus — once — horis — at least.” 

“ Oh, and you mean she wouldn’t have you? ” 
asked Nellie, with blunt directness. 

‘‘ Not quite that,” said I. “ They ” 

“ They ? ” murmured Dolly, with half-lifted lids. 

“ They,'' I pursued, ‘‘ regretfully recognised my 
impossibility. Hence I am not carrying pots 
across a broad terrace under a hot sun.” 

« Why did they think you impossible ? ” asked 
Miss Phaeton, who takes much interest in this sort 
of question. 

‘‘ A variety of reasons : for one I was too clever, 
for another too stupid ; for others too good — or 
too bad ; too serious — or too frivolous ; too poor 
or ” 

“Well, no one objected to your money, I sup- 
pose?” interrupted Nellie. 

“ Pardon me. I was about to say ‘ or not rich 
enough.’ ” 

“ But that’s the same thing.” 

“The antithesis is certainly imperfect,” I ad- 
mitted. 

“Mr. Gay,” said Nellie, introducing the name 
with some timidity, “ you know who I mean ? — 
the poet — once said to me that man was essen- 
tially imperfect until he was married.” 

“ It is true,” I agreed. “ And woman until she 
is dead.” 


129 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“ I don’t think he meant it quite in that sense,” 
said Nellie, rather puzzled. 

‘ “ I don’t think he meant it in any sense,” mur- 
mured Dolly, a little unkindly. 

We might have gone on talking in this idle way 
for ever so long had not Archie at this point 
dropped a large flower-pot and smashed it to bits. 
He stood looking at the bits for a moment, and 
then came towards us and sank into a chair. 

“ I’m off! ” he announced. 

“And half are on one side, and half on the 
other,” said Dolly, regretfully. 

A sudden impulse seized me. I got up, put on 
my straw hat, took off* my coat, walked out into 
the sun, and began to move flower-pots across the 
broad terrace. I heard a laugh from Archie, a lit- 
tle cry from Dolly, and from Nellie Phaeton, 
“ Goodness, what’s he doin’ that for ? ” I was not 
turned from my purpose. The luncheon bell rang. 
Miss Phaeton, whip and twine in hand, walked 
into the house. Archie followed her, saying as he 
passed that he hoped I shouldn’t find it warm. I 
went on shifting the flower-pots. They were very 
heavy. I broke two, but I went on. Presently 
Dolly put up her parasol and came out from the 
shade to watch me. She stood there for a mo- 
ment or two. Then she said : 

“ Well, do you think you’d like it, Mr. Carter? ” 

“Wait till I’ve finished,” said I, waving my 
hand. 

Another ten minutes saw the end of my task. 

130 


WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN 


Panting and hot I sought the shade, and flung my- 
self on to my deck-chair again. I also lit a cigar- 
ette. 

“ I think they looked better on the other side, 
after all,” said Dolly meditatively. 

“Of course you do,” said I urbanely. “You 
needn’t tell me that.” 

“Perhaps you’d like to move them back,” she 
suggested. 

“ No,” said I. “ I’ve done enough to create the 
impression.” 

“ And how did you like it ? ” 

“ It was,” said I, “ in its way a pleasant enough 
illusion.” And I shrugged my shoulders, and blew 
a ring of smoke. 

To my very considerable gratiflcation, Dolly’s 
tone manifested some annoyance as she asked ; 

“ Why do you say ‘ in its way ’ ? ” 

“ Because, in spite of the momentary pleasure I 
gained from feeling myself a married man, I could 
not banish the idea that we should not permanent- 
ly suit one another.” 

“ Oh, you thought that ? ” said Dolly, smiling 
again. 

“ I must confess it,” said I. “ The fault, I know, 
would be mine.” 

“ I’m sure of that,” said Dolly. 

“ But the fact is that I can’t exist in too high 
altitudes. The rarefaction of the moral atmos- 
phere ” 

“ Please don’t use all those long words.” 

131 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


“Well, then, to put it plainly,” said I, with a 
pleasant smile, “ I felt all the time that Mrs. Hilary 
would be too good for me.” 

It is not very often that it falls to my humble lot 
to startle Lady Mickleham out of her composure. 
But at this point she sat up quite straight in her 
chair ; her cheek flushed, and her eyelids ceased to 
droop in indolent insouciance. 

“ Mrs. Hilary ! ” she said. “ What has Mrs. 
Hilary ? ” 

“ I really thought you understood,” said I, “ the 
object of my experiment.” 

Dolly glanced at me. I believe that my expres- 
sion was absolutely innocent — and I am, of course, 
sure that hers expressed mere surprise. 

“ I thought,” she said, after a pause, “ that you 
were thinking of Nellie Phaeton.” 

“ Oh, I see,” cried I, smiling. “ A natural mis- 
take, to be sure ! ” 

“ She thought so too,” pursued Dolly, biting her 

lip. 

“ Did she though ? ” 

“ And I’m sure she’d be quite annoyed if she 
thought you were thinking of Mrs. Hilary.” 

“As a matter of fact,” I observed, “she didn’t 
understand what I was doing at all.” 

Dolly leant back. The relics of a frown still 
dwelt on her brow ; presently, however, she began 
to swing her hat on her forefinger, and she threw a 
look at me. I immediately looked up towards the 
branches above my head. 

132 


WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN 


“We might as well go in to luneh,” said 
Dolly. 

“ By all means,” I acquiesced, with alacrity. 

We went out into the sunshine, and came where 
the pots were. Suddenly Dolly said : 

“ Go back and sit down again, Mr. Carter.” 

“ I want my lunch,” I ventured to observe. 

“ Do as I tell you,” said Dolly, stamping her 
foot : whereat, much intimidated, I went back, and 
stretched myself once more on the deck-chair. 

Dolly approached a flower-pot. She stooped 
down, exerted her strength, lifted it, and carried it, 
not without effort, across the terrace. Again she 
did the like. I sat smoking and watching. She 
lifted a third pot, but dropped it half way. Then, 
dusting her hands against one another, she came 
back slowly into the shade and sat down. I made 
no remark. Dolly glanced at me. 

“ Well? ” she said. 

“ Woman — woman — woman ! ” said I sadly. 

“ Must I carry some more ? ” asked Dolly, in a 
humble, yet protesting, tone. 

“ Mrs. Hilary,” I began, “is an exceedingly at- 
tractive ” 

Dolly rose with a sigh. 

“ Where are you going ? ” I asked. 

“ More pots,” said Dolly, standing opposite me. 
“ I must go on, you see.” 

“ Till when. Lady Mickleham ? ” 

Till you tell the truth,” said Dolly, and she sud- 
denly burst into a little laugh. 

133 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


‘‘Woman — woman — woman!” said I again. 
“ Let’s go in to lunch.” 

“ I’m going to carry the pots,” said Dolly. “ It’s 
awfully hot, Mr. Carter — and look at my poor 
hands ! ” 

She held them out to me. 

“ Lunch ! ” said I. 

“ Pots I ” said Dolly, with infinite firmness. 

The window of the dining-room opened and 
Archie put his head out. 

“Come along, you two,” he called. “Every- 
thing’s getting cold.” 

Dolly turned an appealing glance on me. 

“ How obstinate you are 1 ” she said. “You know 
perfectly well ” 

I began to walk towards the house. 

“ I’m going in to lunch,” said I. 

“Ask them to keep some for me,” said Dolly, 
and she turned up the sleeves of her gown, till her 
wrists were free. 

“ It’s most unfair,” said I indignantly. 

“ I don’t care if it is,” said Dolly, stooping down 
to lift a pot. 

I watched her strain to lift it. She had chosen 
the largest and heaviest ; she sighed delicately and 
delicately she panted. She also looked at her 
hands, and held them up for me to see the lines of 
brown on the pink. I put my hands in my pockets 
and said most sulkily, as I turned away towards 
the house : 

“ All right. It wasn’t Mrs. Hilary then.” 

134 


WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN 


Dolly rose up, seized me by the arm, and made 
me run to the house. 

“ Mr. Carter,” she cried, ‘‘ would stop for those 
wretched pots. He’s moved all except two, but 
he’s broken three. Isn’t he stupid ? ” 

“ You are an old ass. Carter,” said Archie. 

“ I believe you’re right, Archie,” said I. 


135 


XX 


ONE WAY IN 

I HAD a very curious dream the other night. In 
fact, I dreamt that I was dead. 1 passed through 
a green baize door and found myself in a small 
square room. Opposite me was another door, in- 
scribed “ Elysian Fields, ” and in front of it, at a 
large table with a raised ledge, sat Rhadamanthus. 
As I entered I saw a graceful figure vanish through 
the door opposite. 

“ It’s no use trying to deceive me,” I observed. 
“ That was Mrs. Hilary, I think ; if you don’t mind. 
I’ll join her.” 

“ I’m afraid I must trouble you to take a seat for 
a few moments, Mr. Carter,” said Rhadamanthus, 
“ while I run over your little account.” 

“ Any formalities which are usual,” I murmured 
poUtely, as I sat down. 

Rhadamanthus turned over the leaves of a large 
book. 

“ Carter — Samuel Travers, isn’t it ! ” he asked. 

“Yes. For goodness sake don’t confuse me 
with Vincent Carter. He only paid five shillings 
in the pound.” 

“Your case presents some peculiar features, Mr. 
Carter,” said Rhadamanthus. “ I hope I am not 
censorious, but — well, that fine at Bow-street ? ” 

136 


ONE WAY IN 


“ I was a mere boy,” said I, with some warmth, 

“ and my solicitor grossly mismanaged the case.” 

“ Well, well ! ” said he soothingly. “ But haven’t 
you spent a great deal of time at Monte Carlo ? ” 

‘‘ A man must be somewhere,” said I. 

Rhadamanthus scratched his nose. 

“ I should have wasted the money anyhow,” I 
added. 

‘‘ I suppose you would,” he conceded. “ But what 
of this caveat lodged by the Dowager Lady Mickle- 
ham? That’s rather serious, you know; isn’t it 
now — joking apart? ” 

“ I am disappointed,” I remarked, “ to find a 
man of your experience paying any attention to 
such an ill-natured old woman.” 

“We have our rules,” he replied, “and I’m 
afraid, Mr. Carter, that until that caveat is re- 
moved ” 

“ You don’t mean that ? ” 

“ Really, I’m afraid so.” 

“ Then I may as well go back,” said I, taking 
my hat. 

At this moment there was a knock at the door. 

“ Although I can’t oblige you with an order of 
admission,” said Rhadamanthus, very civilly, “ per- 
haps it would amuse you to listen to a case or two. 
There’s no hurry, you know. You’ve got lots of 
time before you.” 

“ It will be an extremely interesting experience,” 
said I, sitting down again. 

The door opened, and, as I expected (I dont 
10 137 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


know why, but it happens like that in dreams), 
Dolly Mickleham came in. She did not seem to 
see me. She bowed to Rhadamanthus, smiled, and 
took a chair immediately opposite the table. 

“ Mickleham — Dorothea — Countess of — ” she 
said. 

“ Formerly, I think, Dolly Foster ? ” asked 
Rhadamanthus. 

‘‘ I don’t see what that’s got to do with it,” said 
Dolly. 

“ The account runs on,” he explained, and began 
to consult his big book. Dolly leant back in her 
chair, slowly peeling off her gloves. Rhadamanthus 
shut the book with a bang. 

“ It’s not the least use,” he said decisively. “ It 
wouldn’t be kind to pretend that it was. Lady 
Mickleham.” 

“ Dear, dear,” said Dolly. “ What’s the matter ? ” 

‘‘Half the women in London have petitioned 
against you.” 

“ Have they really ? ” cried Dolly, to all appear- 
ance rather delighted. “What do they say, Mr. 
Rhadamanthus? Is it in that book? Let me 
look.” And she held out her hand. 

“ The book’s too heavy for you to hold,” said he. 

“ I’ll come round,” said Dolly. So she went 
round and leant over his shoulder and read the book. 

“ What’s that scent you’ve got on ? ” asked 
Rhadamanthus. 

“ Bouquet du diable,” said she. (I had never 
heard of the perfume before.) “ Isn’t it sweet ? ” 
138 


ONE WAY IN 


“ I haven’t smelt it since I was a boy,” sighed 
Rhadamanthus. 

“ Poor old thing,” said Dolly. ‘‘ I’m not going 
to read all this, you know.” And, with a some- 
what contemptuous smile, she walked back to her 
chair. “ They ought to be ashamed of themselves,” 
she added, as she sat down. ‘‘ It’s just because I’m 
not a fright.” 

“ Aren’t you a fright ? ” asked Rhadamanthus. 
‘‘ Where are my spectacles ? ” 

He put them on and looked at Dolly. 

“ I must go in, you know,” said Dolly, smiling at 
Rhadamanthus. “ My husband has gone in ! ” 

“ I shouldn’t have thought you’d consider that 
conclusive,” said he, with a touch of satire in his 
tone. 

“ Don’t be horrid,” said Dolly, pouting. 

There was a pause. Rhadamanthus examined 
Dolly through his spectacles. 

“ This is a very painful duty,” said he, at last. 
‘‘I have sat here for a great many years, and I 
have seldom had a more painful duty.” 

“ It’s very absurd of you,” said Dolly. 

“ I can’t help it, though,” said he. 

“ Do you really mean that I’m not to go in ? ” 

“ I do, indeed,” said Rhadamanthus. 

Dolly rose. She leant her arms on the raised 
ledge which ran along the table, and she leant her 
chin on her hands. 

‘‘ Really ? ” she said. 

“ Really,” said he, looking the other way. 

139 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


A sudden change came over Dolly’s face. Her 
dimples vanished : her eyes grew pathetic and 
began to shine rather than to sparkle : her lip quiv- 
ered just a little. 

“You’re very unkind,” she said in an extremely 
low tone. “I had no idea you would be so un- 
kind.” 

Rhadamanthus seemed very uncomfortable. 

“ Don’t do that,” he said, quite sharply, fidgeting 
with the blotting-paper. 

Dolly began to move slowly round the table. 
Rhadamanthus sat still. When she was standing 
close by him, she put her hand lightly on his arm 
and said: 

“ Please do, Mr. Rhadamanthus.” 

“ It’s as much as my place is worth,” he grumbled. 

Dolly’s eyes shone still, but the faintest little 
smile began to play about her mouth. 

“ Some day,” she said (with total inappropriate- 
ness, now I come to think of it, though it did not 
strike me so at the time), “ you’ll be glad to remem- 
ber having done a kind thing. When you’re old — 
because you are not really old now — you will say, 
‘I’m glad I didn’t send poor Dolly Mickleham 
away crying.’ ” 

Rhadamanthus uttered an inarticulate sound — 
half impatience, half, I fancy, something else. 

“ We are none of us perfect, I dare say. If I 
asked your wife ” 

“ I haven’t got a wife,” said Rhadamanthus. 

“ That’s why you’re so hard-hearted,” said Dolly. 

140 


ONE WAY IN 


‘‘ A man who’s got a wife is never hard on other 
women.” 

There was another pause. Then Rhadamanthus, 
looking straight at the blotting-paper, said : 

“ Oh, well, don’t bother me. Be off with you ; ” 
and as he spoke, the door behind him opened. 

Dolly’s face broke out into sudden sunshine. 
Her eyes danced, her dimples capered over her chin. 

“ Oh, you old dear ! ” she cried ; and, stooping 
swiftly, she kissed Rhadamanthus. ‘‘ You’re hor- 
ribly bristly ! ” she laughed ; and then, before he 
could move, she ran through the door. 

I rose from my seat, taking my hat and stick in 
my hand. I felt, as you may suppose, that I had 
been there long enough. When I moved, Rhad- 
amanthus looked up, and with an attempt at un- 
consciousness observed ; 

“We will proceed with your case now, if you 
please, Mr. Carter.” 

I looked him full in the face. Rhadamanthus 
blushed. I pursued my way towards the door. 

“ Stop ! ” he said, in a blustering tone. “ You 
can’t go there, you know.” 

I smiled significantly. 

“ Isn’t it rather too late for that sort of thing ? ” 
I asked. “ You seem to forget that I have been 
here for the last quarter of an hour.” 

“I didn’t know she was going to do it,” he pro- 
tested. 

“ Oh, of course,” said I, “ that will be your story. 
Mine, however, I shall tell in my own way.” 

141 


THE DOLLY DIALOGUES 


Rhadamanthus blushed again. Evidently he felt 
that he was in a dehcate position. We were stand- 
ing thus, facing one another, when the door began 
to open again, and Dolly put her head out. 

“ Oh, it’s you, is it ? ” she said. “ I thought I 
heard your voice. Come along and help me to 
find Archie.” 

‘‘ This gentleman says I’m not to come in,” said I. 

‘‘ Oh, what nonsense ! Now, you really mustn’t 
be silly, Mr. Rhadamanthus — or I shall have to — 
Mr. Carter, you weren’t there, were you ? ” 

“ I was — and a more interesting piece of scandal 
it has seldom been ” 

“ Hush ! I didn’t do anything. Now, you know 
I didn’t, Mr. Carter ! ” 

‘‘ No,” said I, “ you didn’t. But Rhadamanthus, 
taking you unawares ” 

‘‘ Oh, be off with you — both of you ! ” cried 
Rhadamanthus. 

That’s sensible,” said Dolly. ‘‘ Because, you 
know, there really isn’t any harm in poor Mr. 
Carter.” 

Rhadamanthus vanished. Dolly and I went inside. 

“ I suppose everything will be very different 
here,” said Dolly, and I think she sighed. 

Whether it were or not I don’t know, for just 
then I awoke, and found myself saying aloud, in 
answer to the dream-voice and the dream-face 
(which had not gone altogether with the dream), 

“ Not everything ’’^ — a speech that, I agree, I 
ought not to have made, even though it were only 
in a dream. 


142 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 



COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 
CHAPTER I 

THE VIRTUOUS HYPOCRITES 

At first sight they had as little reason for being 
unhappy as it is possible to have in a world half 
full of sorrow. They were young and healthy ; 
half a dozen times each had declared the other 
more than commonly good-looking ; they both had, 
and never knew what it was not to have, money 
enough for comfort and, in addition, that divine 
little superfluity wherefrom joys are born. The 
house was good to look at and good to live in; 
there were horses to ride, the river to go a-rowing 
on, and a big box from Mudie’s every week. No 
one worried them ; Miss Bussey was generally vis- 
iting the poor, or, as was the case at this moment, 
asleep in her armchair, with Paul, the terrier, in his 
basket beside her, and the cat on her lap. Lastly, 
they were plighted lovers, and John was staying 
with Miss Bussey for the express purpose of de- 
lighting and being delighted by his fiancee, Mary 
Travers. For these and all their mercies certainly 
they should have been truly thankful. 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


However, the heart of man is wicked. This fact 
alone can explain why Mary sat sadly in the draw- 
ing-room, feeling a letter that was tucked inside 
her waistband, and John strode moodily up and 
down the gravel walk, a cigar, badly bitten, be- 
tween his teeth, and his hand ever and again cov- 
ertly stealing towards his breast-pocket and pressing 
a scented note that lay there. In the course of 
every turn John would pass the window of the 
drawing-room; then Mary would look up with a 
smile and blow him a kiss, and he nodded and 
laughed, and returned the salute. But, the window 
passed, both sighed deeply and returned to fingering 
those hidden missives. 

“ Poor little girl ! I must keep it up,” said John. 

“Dear good John! He must never know,” 
thought Mary. 

And the two fell to thinking just what was re- 
marked a few lines back, namely, that the human 
heart is very wicked ; they were shocked at them- 
selves ; the young often are. 

Miss Bussey awoke, sat up, evicted the cat, and 
found her spectacles. 

“ Where are those children ? ” said she. “ Bill- 
ing and cooing somewhere, I suppose. Bless me, 
why don’t they get tired of it ? ” 

They had; not indeed of billing and cooing in 
general, for no one at their age does or ought to 
get tired of that ; but of billing and cooing with 
one another. 

It will be observed that the situation promised 
2 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


well for a tragedy. Nevertheless this is not the 
story of an unhappy marriage. 

If there be one thing which Government should 
forbid, it is a secret engagement. Engagements 
should be advertised as marriages are ; but unless 
we happen to be persons of social importance or 
considerable notoriety, no such precautions are 
taken. Of course there are engagement rings ; but 
a man never knows one when he sees it on a lady’s 
hand — it would indeed be impertinent to look too 
closely — and when he goes out alone he generally 
puts his in his pocket, considering that the evening 
will thus be rendered more enjoyable. The Ash- 
forth- Travers engagement was not a secret now, 
but it had been, and had been too long. Hence, 
when Mary went to Scotland and met Charlie 
Ellerton, and when John went to Switzerland and 
met Dora Bellairs— the truth is, they ought never 
to have separated, and Miss Bussey, who was one 
of the people in the secret, had been quite right 
when she remarked that it seemed a curious ar- 
rangement. John and Mary had scoffed at the 
idea of a few weeks’ absence having any effect on 
their feelings except, if indeed it were possible, 
that of intensifying them. 

“I really think I ought to go and find them,” 
said Miss Bussey. ‘‘ Come, Paul ! ” 

She took a parasol, for the April sun was bright, 
and went into the garden. When she came to the 
drawing-room window John was away at the end 
of the walk. She looked at him ; he was reading a 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


letter. She looked in at the window : Mary was 
reading a letter. 

“Well!” exclaimed Miss Bussey. “Have they 
had a tiff?” And she slowly waddled (truth im- 
poses this word — she was very stout) towards the 
unconscious John. He advanced towards her, still 
reading; not only did he not see her, but he failed 
to notice that Paul had got under his feet. He 
fell over Paul, and as he stumbled the letter flut- 
tered out of his hand. Paul seized it, and began 
to toss it about in great glee. 

“ Good doggie 1 ” cried Miss Bussey. “ Come 
then 1 Bring it to me, dear. Good Paul 1 ” 

John’s face was distorted with agony. He darted 
towards Paul, fell on him, and gripped him closely. 
Paul yelped, and Miss Bussey observed, in an in- 
dignant tone, that John need not throttle the dog. 
John muttered something. 

“ Is the letter so very precious? ” asked his host- 
ess ironically. 

“ Precious ! ” cried John. “ Yes ! — No ! — It’s 

nothing at all.” 

But he opened Paul’s mouth and took out his 
treasure with wonderful care. 

“ And why,” inquired Miss Bussey, “ are you not 
with Mary, young man ? You’re very neglectful.” 

“ Neglectful 1 Surely, Miss Bussey, you haven’t 
noticed anything like neglect ? Don’t say ” 

“ Bless the boy! I was only joking. You’re a 
model lover.” 

“ Thank you, thank you. I’ll go to her at once,” 
4 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


and he sped towards the window, opened it and 
walked up to Mary. Miss Bussey followed him 
and arrived just in time to see the lovers locked in 
one another’s arms, their faces expressing all appro- 
priate rapture. 

“ There’s nothing much wrong,” said Miss Bus- 
sey ; wherein Miss Bussey herself was much 
wrong. 

“ What a shame ! I’ve left you alone for more 
than an hour ! ” said John. “ Have you been very 
unhappy ? ” and he added, ‘‘ darhng.” It sounded 
like an afterthought. 

“ I have been rather unhappy,” answered Mary, 
and her answer was true. As she said it she 
tucked in a projecting edge of her letter. John 
had hurriedly slipped his — it was rather the worse 
for its mauling — into his trousers-pocket. 

‘‘You — you didn’t think me neglectful ? ” 

“ Oh, no.” 

“ I was thinking of you all the time.” 

“ And I was thinking of you, dear.” 

“ Are you very happy ? ” 

“ Yes, John ; aren’t you ? ” 

“Of course I am. Happy! I should think 
so;” and he kissed her with unimpeachable fer- 
vour. 

When a conscientious person makes up his mind 
that he ought, for good reasons, to decieve some- 
body, there is no one like him for thorough-paced 
hypocrisy. When two conscientious people re- 
solve to deceive one another, on grounds of duty, 
5 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


the acme of duplicity is in a fair way to be reached. 
John Ashforth and Mary Travers illustrated this 
proposition. The former had been all his life a 
good son, and was now a trustworthy partner, to 
his father, who justly relied no less on his charac- 
ter than on his brains. The latter, since her par- 
ents’ early death had left her to her aunt’s care, had 
been the comfort and prop of Miss Bussey’s life. 
It is difficult to describe good people without mak- 
ing them seem dull ; but luckily Nature is defter 
than novelists, and it is quite possible to be good 
without being dull. Neither Mary nor John was 
dull ; a trifle limited, perhaps, they were, a thought 
severe in their judgments of others as well as of 
themselves, a little exacting with their friends and 
more than a little with themselves. One descrip- 
tion paints them both ; doubtless their harmony of 
mind had contributed more than Mary’s sweet ex- 
pression and finely cut features, or John’s upstand- 
ing six feet and honest capable face, to produce 
that attachment between them which had, six 
months before this story begins, culminated in their 
engagement. Once arrived at, this ending seemed 
to have been inevitable. Everybody discovered 
that they had foretold it from the first, and mod- 
estly disclaimed any credit for anticipating a union 
between a couple so obviously made for one an- 
other. 

The distress into which lovers such as these fell 
when they discovered by personal experience that 
sincerely to vow eternal love is one thing, and sin- 
6 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


cerely to give it quite another, may well be imag- 
ined, and may well be left to be imagined. They 
both went through a terrible period of temptation, 
wherein they listened longingly to the seductive 
pleading of their hearts ; but both emerged tri-; 
umphant, resolved to stifle their mad fancy, to pre- 
fer good faith to mere inclination, and to avoid, at 
all costs, wounding one to whom they had sworn 
to be true. Thus far their steadfastness carried 
them, but not beyond. They could part from their 
loved ones, and they did ; but they could not leave 
them without a word. Each wrote, after leaving 
Scotland and Switzerland respectively, a few lines 
of adieu, confessing the love they felt, but with 
resolute sadness saying farewell for ever. They 
belonged to another. 

It was the answers that Mary and John were 
reading when Miss Bussey discovered them. 

Mary’s ran — 

“ My dear Miss Travers, 

“ I have received your letter. I can’t tell 
you what it means to me. You say all must be 
over between us. Don’t be offended — but I won’t 
say that yet. It can’t be your duty to marry a 
man you don’t love. You forbid me to write or 
come to you ; and you ask only for a word of good- 
bye. I won’t say good-bye. I’ll say Au revoir — 
au revoir, my darling. 

‘‘ Charlie. 


“ Burn this. 


7 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


This was John’s — 

“ My dear Mr. Ashforth, 

“ What am I to say to you ? Oh, why, 
why didn’t you tell me before ? I oughtn’t to say 
that, but it is too late to conceal anything from 
you. Yes, you are right. It must be good-bye. 
Yes, I will try to forget you. But oh, John, it’s 
very, very, very difficult. I don’t know how to 
sign this — so I won’t. You’ll know who it comes 
from, won’t you ? Good-bye. Burn this.” 

These letters, no doubt, make it plain that there 
had been at least a momentary weakness both in 
Mary and in John ; but in a true and charitable 
view their conduct in rising superior to temptation 
finally was all the more remarkable and praisewor- 
thy. They had indeed, for the time, been carried 
away. Even now Mary found it hard not to make 
allowances for herself, little as she was prone to 
weakness, when she thought of the impetuous 
abandon and conquering whirl with which Charlie 
EUerton had wooed her; and John confessed that 
flight alone, a hasty flight from Interlaken after a 
certain evening spent in gazing at the Jungfrau, 
had saved him from casting everything to the winds 
and yielding to the slavery of Dora Bellairs’s sunny 
smiles and charming coquetries. He had always 
thought that that sort of girl had no attractions for 
him, just as Mary had despised “butterfly-men” 
like Charlie EUerton. Well, they were wrong. 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 

The only comfort was that shallow natures felt these 
sorrows less; it would have broken Mary’s heart 
(thought John), or John’s (thought Mary), but 
Dora and Charlie would soon find consolation in 
another. But here, oddly enough, John generally 
swore heartily, and Mary always began to search 
for her handkerchief. 

“ They’re as affectionate as one could wish when 
they’re together,” mused Miss Bussey, as she 
stroked the cat, “ but at other times they’re gloomy 
company. I suppose they can’t be happy apart. 
Dear 1 dear ! ” And the good lady fell to wonder- 
ing whether she had ever been so foolish herself. 


11 


9 


CHAPTER II 


SYMPATHY IN SORROW 

‘‘ Give me,” observed Sir Roger Deane, “ Cannes, a 
fine day, a good set to look at, a beehive chair, a 
good cigar, a cocktail on one side and a nice girl on 
the other, and there I am I I don’t want anything 
else.” 

General Bellairs pulled his white moustache and 
examined Sir Roger’s figure and surroundings with 
a smile. 

‘‘ Then only Lady Deane is wanting to your com- 
plete happiness,” said he. 

“ Maud is certainly a nice girl, but when she de- 
serts me ” 

“ Where is she ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

‘‘ I do,” interposed a young man, who wore an 
^y^'^l^ss and was in charge of a large jug. “ She’s 
gone to Monte.” 

“ I might have known,” said Sir Roger. “ Being 

missed here always means you’ve gone to Monte 

like not being at church means you’ve ffone to 
Brighton. ” 

‘‘ Surely she doesn’t play ? ” asked the General. 

“ Not she ! She’s going to put it in a book. She 
writes books, you know. She put me in the last- 
made me a dashed fool, too, by Jove ! ” 

10 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


“ That was unkind, ” said the General, “ from 
your wife.” 

“ Oh, Lord love you, she didn’t mean it. I was 
the hero. That’s how I came to be such an ass. 
The dear girl meant everything that was kind. 
Who’s taken her to Monte ? ” 

“ Charlie Ellerton,” said the young man with the 
eye-glass. 

“ There ! I told you she was a kind girl. She’s 
trying to pull old Charlie up a peg or two. He s 
had the deuce of a facer, you know.” 

“ I thought he seemed less cheerful than usual.” 

“ Oh, rather. He met a girl somewhere or other 
— I always forget places — Miss — Miss — hang it, I 
can’t remember names — and got awfully smitten, 
and everything went pleasantly and she took to him 
like anything, and at last old Charlie spoke up like 
a man, and — ” Sir Roger paused dramatically. 

“ Well ? ” asked the General. 

She was engaged to another fellow. Rough, 
wasn’t it ? She told old Charlie she hked him in- 
fernally, but promises were promises, don’t you 
know, and she’d thank him to take his hook. And 
he had to take it, by gad ! Rough, don’t you 
know? So Maud’s been cheering him up. The 
devil ! ” 

“What’s the matter now?” inquired the Gen- 
eral. 

“ Why, I’ve just remembered that I promised to 
say nothing about it. I say, don’t you repeat it. 
General, nor you either, Laing.” 

11 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


The General laughed. 

“Well,” said Sir Roger, “he oughtn’t to have 
been such a fool as to tell me. He knows I never 
remember to keep things dark. It’s not my fault.” 

A girl came out of the hotel and strolled up to 
where the group was. She was dark, slight, and 
rather below middle height ; her complexion at this 
moment was a trifle saUow and her eyes listless, but 
it seemed rather as though she had dressed her face 
into a tragic cast, the set of the features being nat- 
urally mirthful. She acknowledged the men’s salu- 
tations and sat down with a sigh. 

“ Not on to-day? ” asked Sir Roger, waving his 
cigar towards the lawn- tennis courts. 

“ No,” said Miss Bellairs. 

“ Are you seedy, Dolly ? ” inquired the General. 

“ No,” said Miss Bellairs. 

Mr. Laing fixed his eye-glass and surveyed the 
young lady. 

“ Are you taking any ? ” said he, indicating the 

jug. 

“ I don’t see any fun in vulgarity,” observed Miss 
Bellairs. 

The General smiled. Sir Roger’s lips assumed 
the shape for a whistle. 

“ That’s a nasty one for me,” said Laing. 

“ Ah, here you are, Roger,” exclaimed a fresh 
clear voice from behind the chairs. “ I’ve been 
looking for you everywhere. We’ve seen every- 
thing — Mr. Ellerton was most kind — and I do so 
want to tell you my impressions.” 

12 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


The new-comer was Lady Deane, a tall young 
woman, plainly dressed in a serviceable cloth walk- 
ing-gown. By her side stood Charlie Ellerton in a 
flannel suit of pronounced striping; he wore a little 
yellow moustache, had blue eyes and curly hair, and 
his face was tanned a wholesome ruddy-brown. He 
looked very melancholy. 

‘‘ Letters from Hell,” murmured Sir Roger. 

“But I was so distressed,” continued his wife. 

“ Mr. Ellerton would gamble, and he lost ever so 
much money.” 

“A fellow must amuse himself,” remarked Charlie 
gloomily, and with apparent unconsciousness he 
took a glass from Laing and drained it. 

“ Gambling and drink — what does that mean ? ” 
asked Sir Roger. 

“ Shut up, Deane,” said Charlie. 

Miss Bellairs rose suddenly and walked away. 
Her movement expressed impatience with her sur- 
roundings. After a moment Charlie Ellerton slowly 
sauntered after her. She sat down on a garden-seat 
some way off. Charlie placed himself at the oppo- 
site end. A long pause ensued. 

“ I’m afraid I’m precious poor company,” said 
Charlie. 

“ I didn’t want you to be company at all,” an- 
swered Miss Bellairs, and she sloped her parasol 
until it obstructed his view of her face. 

“ I’m awfully sorry, but I can’t stand the sort of 
rot Deane and Laing are talking.” 

“ Can’t you ? Neither can I.” 

13 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“ They never seem to be serious about anything, 
you know.” Charlie sighed deeply, and for three 
minutes there was silence. 

‘‘ Do you know Scotland at all ? ” asked Charlie 
at last. 

“ Only a little.” 

“ There last year ? ” 

“No, I was in Switzerland.” 

“ Oh.” 

“ Do you know Interlaken ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Oh.” 

“ May I have a cigarette ? ” 

“ Of course, if you like.” 

Charlie lit his cigarette and smoked silently for a 
minute or two. 

“ I call this a beastly place,” said he. 

“ Yes, horrid,” she answered, and the force of 
sympathy made her move the parasol and turn her 
face towards her companion. “ But I thought,” 
she continued, “ you came here every spring ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t mind the place so much. It’s the 
people.” 

“ Yes, isn’t it ? I know what you mean.” 

“You can’t make a joke of everything, can 
you ? ” 

“ Indeed, no,” sighed Dora. 

Charlie looked at his cigarette, and, his eyes care- 
fully fixed on it, said in a timid tone, 

“ What’s the point, for instance, of talking as if 
love was all bosh ? ” 


14 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


Dora’s parasol swept down again swiftly, but 
Charlie was still looking at the eigarette and he did 
not notice its descent, nor could he see that Miss 
Bellairs’s cheek was no longer sallow. 

‘‘ It’s such cheap rot,” he continued, ‘‘ and when 
a fellow’s — I say, Miss Bellairs, I’m not boring 
you ? ” 

The parasol wavered and finally moved. 

“ No,” said Miss Bellairs. 

“ I don’t know whether you — no, I mustn’t say 
that; but I know what it is to be in love. Miss 
Bellairs ; but what’s the good of talking about it ? 
Everybody laughs.” 

Miss Bellairs put down her parasol. 

“ I shouldn’t laugh,” she said softly. “ It’s horrid 
to laugh at people when they’re in trouble,” and 
her eyes were very sympathetic. 

You are kind. I don’t mind talking about it 
to you. You know I’m not the sort of fellow who 
falls in love with every girl he meets ; so of course 
it’s worse when I do.” 

“ Was it just lately? ” murmured Dora. 

Last summer.” 

“ Ah ! And — and didn’t she ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know. Yes, hang it, I believe she 
did. She was perfectly straight. Miss Bellairs. I 
don’t say a word against her. She — I think she 
didn’t know her own feelings until — until I spoke, 

you know — and then ” 

Do go on, if — if it doesn’t ” 

Why, then, the poor girl cried and said it 
15 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


couldn’t be because she — she was engaged to an- 
other fellow ; and she sent me away.” 

Miss Bellairs was listening attentively. 

“ And,” continued Charlie, “ she wrote and said 
it must be good-bye and — and ” 

“ And you think she ? ” 

She told me so,” whispered Charlie. “ She said 
she couldn’t part without telling me. Oh, I say. 
Miss Bellairs, isn’t it all damnable? I beg your 
pardon.” 

Dora was tracing little figures on the gravel with 
her parasol. 

“Now what would you do?” cried Charlie. 
“ She loves me, I know she does, and she’s going 
to marry this other fellow because she promised 
him first. I don’t suppose she knew what love 
was then.” 

“ Oh, I’m sure she didn’t,” exclaimed Dora ear- 
nestly. 

“You can’t blame her, you know. And it’s ab- 
surd to — to — to — not to — well, to marry a fellow 
you don’t care for when you care for another fel- 
low, you know ! ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Of course you can hardly imagine yourself in 
that position, but suppose a man liked you and — 
and was placed like that, you know, what should 
you feel you ought to do ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” exclaimed Dora, clasping 
her hands. “ Oh, do tell me what you think ! I’d 
give the world to know 1 ” 

16 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 

Charlie’s surprised glance warned her of her be- 
trayal. 

“ You mustn’t ask me,” she exclaimed hastily. 

“I won’t ask a word. I — I’m awfully sorry, 
Miss Bellairs.” 

“ Nobody knows,” she murmured. 

“ Nobody shall through me.” 

‘‘ You’re not very — ? I’m very ashamed.” 

“ Why ? And because of me ! After what I’ve 
told you ! ” 

Charlie rose suddenly. 

“ I’m not going to stand it,” he announced. 

Dora looked up eagerly. 

‘‘ What ? You’re going to ? ” 

‘‘ I’m going to have a shot at it. Am I to stand 
by and see her — ? I’m hanged if I do. Could 
that be right ? ” 

“ I should like to know what one’s duty is.” 

“ This talk with you has made me quite clear. 
We’ve reasoned it out, you see. They’re not to 
be married for two or three monthSo A lot can be 
done in that time.” 

Ah, you’re a man ! ” 

I shall write first. If that doesn’t do,, I shall 
go to her.” 

Dora shook her head mournfully. 

“ Now, look here. Miss Bellairs — you don’t mind 
me advising you ? ” 

‘‘I ought not to have let you see, but as it 
is ” 

‘‘You do as I do, you stick to it. Confound 
17 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 

it, you know, when one’s life’s happiness is at 
stake ” 

“ Oh, yes, yes ! ” 

“ One mustn’t be squeamish, must one ? ” 

And Dora Bellairs, in a very low whisper, an- 
swered, “No.” 

“ I shall write to-night.” 

“Oh! To-night?” 

“ Yes. Now promise me you will too.” 

“ It’s harder for me than you.” 

“ Not if he really ” 

“ Oh, indeed, he really does, Mr. Ellerton.” 

“ Then you’ll write ? ” 

“ Perhaps.” 

“No. Promise!” 

“Well — it must be right. Yes, I will.” 

“ I feel the better for our talk. Miss Bellairs — 
don’t you ? ” 

“ I do a little.” 

“We shall be friends now, you know ; even if I 
bring it off I sha’n’t be content unless you do too. 
Won’t you give me your good wishes? ” 

“ Indeed I will.” 

“ Shake hands on it.” 

They shook hands and began to stroll back to 
the tennis-courts. 

“They look a little better,” observed Sir Roger 
Deane, who had been listening to an eloquent de- 
scription of the gaming-tables. 

Dora and Charlie walked on towards the ho- 
tel. 


18 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


“ Hi !” shouted Sir Roger. “ Tea’s coming out 
here.” 

“ I’ve got a letter to write,” said Charlie. 

‘‘Well, Miss Bellairs, you must come. Who’s 
to pour it out ? ” 

“ I must catch the post. Sir Roger,” answered 
Dora. 

They went into the house together. In the hall 
they parted. 

“ You’ll let me know what happens, Mr. EUer- 
ton, won’t you? I’m so interested.” 

“ And you ? ” 

“ Oh — well, perhaps ; ” and the sallow of her 
cheeks had turned to a fine dusky red as she ran 
upstairs. 

Thus it happened that a second letter for John 
Ashforth and a second letter for Mary Travers left 
Cannes that night. 

And if it seems a curious coincidence that Dora 
and Charlie should meet at Cannes, it can only be 
answered that they were each of them just as hkely 
to be at Cannes as anywhere else. Besides, who 
knows that these things are all coincidence? 


19 


CHAPTER III 


A PROVIDENTIAL DISCLOSURE 

On Wednesday, the eleventh of April, John Ash- 
forth rose from his bed full of a great and momen- 
tous resolution. There is nothing very strange in 
that, perhaps; it is just the time of day when such 
things come to a man, and, in ordinary cases, they 
are very prone to disappear with the relics of break- 
fast. But John was of sterner stuff. He had 
passed a restless night, tossed to and fro by very 
disturbing gusts of emotion, and he arose with the 
firm conviction that if he would escape shipwreck 
he must secure his bark by immovable anchors 
while he was, though not in honour, yet in law 
and fact, free; he could not trust himself. Sor- 
rowfully admitting his weakness, he turned to the 
true, the right, the heroic remedy. 

‘‘ I’ll marry Mary to-day fortnight,” said he. 
‘‘ When we are man and wife I shall forget this 
madness, and love her as I used to.” 

He went down to breakfast, ate a bit of toast 
and drank a cup of very strong tea. Presently 
Mary appeared and greeted him with remarkable 
tenderness. His heart smote him, and his remorse 
strengthened his determination. 

I want to speak to you after breakfast,” he 
told her. 


20 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


His manner was so significant that a sudden 
gleam of hope flashed into her mind. Could it be 
that he had seen, that he would be generous? She 
banished the shameful hope. She would not ac- 
cept generosity at the expense of pain to him. 

Miss Bussey, professing to find bed the best 
place in the world, was in the habit of taking her 
breakfast there. The lovers were alone, and, the 
meal ended, they passed together into the con- 
servatory. Mary sat down, and John leant against 
the glass door, opposite to her. 

“ Well? ” said she, smiling at him. 

It suddenly struck John that, in a scene of this 
nature, it ill-befitted him to stand three yards fi’om 
the lady. He took a chair and drew it close be- 
side her. The thing had to be done and it should 
be done properly. 

“We’ve made a mistake, Mary,” he announced, 
taking her hand and speaking in a rallying tone. 

“ A mistake ! ” she cried ; ‘‘ oh, how ? ” 

“ In fixing our marriage ” 

“ So soon? ” 

“ My darling ! ” said John (and it was impossible 
to deny admiration to the tone he said it in). ‘‘ No. 
So late ! What are we waiting for ? Why are we 
wasting all this precious time ? ” 

Mary could not speak, but consternation passed 
for an appropriate confusion, and John pursued his 
passionate pleadings. As Mary felt his grasp and 
looked into his honest eyes, her duty lay plain be- 
fore her. She would not stoop to paltry excuses 
21 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


on the score of clothes, invitations, or such trifles. 
She had made up her mind to the thing; surely 
she ought to do it in the way most gracious and 
most pleasing to her lover. 

“ If aunt consents,” she murmured at last, “ do 
as you like, John dear,” and the embrace which 
each felt to be inevitable at such a crisis passed be- 
tween them. 

A discreet cough separated them. The butler 
stood in the doorway, with two letters on a salver. 
One he handed to Mary, the other to John, and 
walked away with a twinkle in his eye. However, 
even our butlers do not know everything that hap- 
pens in our houses (to say nothing of our hearts), 
although they may think they do. 

John looked at his letter, started violently and 
crushed it into his pocket. He glanced at Mary ; 
her letter lay neglected on her lap. She was look- 
ing steadily out of the window. 

“Well, that’s settled,” said John. “I — I think 
I’ll have a cigar, dear.” 

“ Yes, do, darling,” said Mary ; and John went 
out. 

These second letters were unfortunately so long 
as to make it impossible to reproduce them. They 
were also very affecting, Dora’s from its pathos, 
Charlie’s from its passion. But the waves of emo- 
tion beat fruitlessly on the rock-built walls of con- 
science. At almost the same moment, Mary, 
brushing away a tear, and John, blowing his nose, 
sat down to write a brief, a final answer. “We 
22 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


are to be married to-day fortnight,” they said. 
They closed the envelopes without a moment’s 
delay and went to drop their letters in the box. 
The servant was already waiting to go to the post 
with them, and a second later the fateful docu- 
ments were on their way to Cannes. 

“Now,” said John, with a ghastly smile, “we 
can have a glorious long day together ! ” 

Mary was determined to leave herself no loop- 
hole. 

“We must tell aunt what — what we have de- 
cided upon this morning,” she reminded him. “ It 
means that the wedding must be very quiet.” 

“ I sha’n’t mind that. Shall you ? ” 

“ I shall like it of all things,” she answered. 
“ Come and find Aunt Sarah.” 

Miss Bussey had always — or at least for a great 
many years back — maintained the general proposi- 
tion that young people do not know their own 
minds. This morning’s news confirmed her opinion. 

“ Why, the other day you both agreed that the 
middle of June would do perfectly. Now you 
want it all done in a scramble.” 

The pair stood before her, looking very guilty. 

“ What is the meaning of this — this ” — she very 
nearly said “ indecent ” — “ extraordinary haste ? ” 
Miss Bussey asked only one indulgence from her 
friends. Before she did a kind thing she liked to 
be allowed to say one or two sharp ones. Her 
niece was aware of this fancy of hers and took 
refuge in silence. John, less experienced in his 
23 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


hostess’s ways, launched into the protests appro- 
priate to an impatient lover. 

“ Well,” said Miss Bussey, “ I must say you look 
properly ashamed of yourself” (John certainly did), 
“ so I’ll see what can be done. What a fluster we 
shall hve in ! Upon my word you might as well 
have it to-morrow. The fuss would have been no 
worse and a good deal shorter.” 

The next few days passed, as Miss Bussey had 
predicted, in a fluster. Mary was running after 
dressmakers, John after hcences. Cook’s tickets, a 
best man, and all the impedimenta of a marriage. 
The intercourse of the lovers was much interrupted, 
and to this Miss Bussey attributed the low spirits 
that Mary sometimes displayed. 

“There, there, my dear,” she would say impa- 
tiently — for the cheerful old lady hated long faces 
—“you’ll have enough of him and to spare by- 
and-by.” 

Curiously this point of view did not comfort 
Mary. She liked John very much, she esteemed 
him even more than she liked him, he would, she 
thought, have made an ideal brother. Ah, why 
had she not made a brother of him while there was 
time ? Then she would have enjoyed his constant 
friendship all her hfe ; for it was not with him, as 
with that foolish boy Charlie, all or nothing. John 
was reasonable; he would not have threatened — 
well, reading his letter one way, Charlie almost 
seemed to be tampering with propriety. John 
would never have done that. And these reflec- 
24 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


tions, all of which should have pleaded for John, 
ended in tears over the lost charms of Charlie. 

One evening, just a week before the wedding, 
she roused herself from some such sad meditations, 
and, duty-driven, sought John in the smoking- 
room. The door was half open and she entered 
noiselessly. John was sitting at the table ; his 
arms were outspread on it, and his face buried in 
his hands. Thinking he was asleep, she approached 
on tiptoe and leant over his shoulder. As she did 
so her eyes fell on a sheet of notepaper ; it was 
clutched in John’s right hand, and the encircling 
grasp covered it, save at the top. The top was 
visible, and Mary, before she knew what she was 
doing, had read the embossed heading — nothing 
else, just the embossed heading — Hotel de Luxe, 
Cannes, Alpes Maritimes. 

The drama teaches us how often a guilty mind 
rushes, on some trifling cause, to self-revelation. 
Like a flash came the conviction that Charlie had 
written to John, that her secret was known, and 
John’s heart broken. In a moment she fell on her 
knees crying, 

“ Oh, how wicked I’ve been ! Forgive me, do 
forgive me ! Oh, John, can you forgive me ? ” 

John was not asleep, he also was merely medi- 
tating; but if he had been a very Rip Van Winkle 
this cry of agony would have roused him. He 
started violently — as well he might — from his seat, 
looked at Mary, and crumpled the letter into a 

shapeless ball. 

12 


25 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“ You didn’t see ? ” he asked hoarsely. 

“No, but I know. I mean I saw the heading, 
and knew it must be from him. Oh, J ohn ! ” 

“ From him ! ” 

“Yes. He’s — he’s staying there. Oh, John! 
Really I’ll never see or speak to him again. Really 
I won’t. Oh, you can trust me, John. See 1 I’ll 
hide nothing. Here’s his letter ! You see I ve 
sent him away ? ” 

And she took from her pocket Charlie’s letter, 
and in her noble fidelity (to John— the less we 
say about poor Charlie the better) handed it to 
him. 

“ What’s this ? ” asked John, in bewilderment. 
“ Who’s it from ? ” 

“ Charlie Ellerton,” she stammered. 

“ Who’s Charlie Ellerton ? I never heard — but 
am I to read it ? ” 

“Yes, please, I — I think you’d better.” 

John read it; Mary followed his eyes, and the 
moment they reached the end, without giving him 
time to speak, she exclaimed, 

“ There, you see I spoke the truth. I had sent 
him away. What does he say to you, J ohn ? ” 

“ I never heard of him in my life before.” 

“ John 1 Then who is your letter from ? ” 

He hesitated. He felt an impulse to imitate her 
candour, but prudence suggested that he should 
be sure of his ground first. 

“ Tell me all,” he said, sitting down. “ Who is 
this man, and what has he to do with you ? ” 

26 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


“ Why don’t you show me his letter ? I don’t 
know what he’s said about me.” 

“ What could he say about you ? ” 

“ Well, he — he might say that — that I cared for 
him, John.” 

“ And do you ? ” demanded John, and his voice 
was anxious. 

Duty demanded a falsehood ; Mary did her best 
to satisfy its imperious commands. It was no 
use. 

“ Oh, John,” she murmured, and then began to 
cry. 

For a moment wounded pride struggled with 
John’s relief; but then a glorious vision of what 
this admission of Mary’s might mean to him swept 
away his pique. 

‘‘ Read this,” he said, giving her Dora Bellairs’ 
letter, “ and then we’ll have an explanation.” 

Half an hour later Miss Bussey was roused from 
a pleasant snooze. John and Mary stood beside 
her, hand in hand. They were brother and sister 
now — that was an integral part of the arrangement 
— and so they stood hand in hand. Their faces 
were radiant. 

“ We came to tell you, auntie dear, that we have 
decided that we’re not suited to one another,” be- 
gan Mary. 

“ Not at all,” said John decisively. 

Miss Bussey stared helplessly from one to the 
other. 

“It’s all right. Miss Bussey,” remarked John 
27 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


cheerfully. “We’ve had an explanation; we part 
by mutual consent.” 

“John,” said Mary, “is to be just my brother 
and I his sister. Oh, and, auntie, I want to go 
with him to Cannes.” 

This last suggestion, which naturally did not ap- 
pear to any well-regulated mind to harmonise with 
what had gone before, restored voice to Miss Bus- 
sey. 

“ What’s the matter with you ? Are you mad ? ” 
she demanded. 

John sat down beside her. His friends antici- 
pated a distinguished Parliamentary career for John ; 
he could make anything sound reasonable. Miss 
Bussey was fascinated by his suave and fluent nar- 
rative of what had befallen Mary and himself ; she 
could not but admire his just remarks on the prov- 
idential disclosure of the true state of the case be- 
fore it was too late, and sympathised with the 
picture of suffering nobly suppressed which grew 
under his skilful hand ; she was inflamed when he 
ardently declared his purpose of seeking out Dora ; 
she was touched when he kissed Mary’s hand and 
declared that the world held no nobler woman. 
Before John’s eloquence even the stern facts of a 
public engagement, of invited guests, of dresses 
ordered and presents received, lost their force, and 
the romantic spirit, rekindled, held undivided sway 
in Miss Bussey’s heart. 

“ But,” she said, “ why does Mary talk of going 
to Cannes with you ? ” 


28 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


“ Mr. Ellerton is at Cannes, aunt,” murmured 
Mary shyly. 

“ But you can’t travel with John.” 

“ Oh, but you must come too. ” 

“ It looks as if you were running after him.” 

“ I’ll chance Charlie thinking that,” cried Mary, 
clasping her hands in glee. 

Miss Bussey pretended to be reluctant to under- 
take the journey, but she was really quite ready to 
yield, and soon everything was settled on the new 
basis. 

“ And now to write and tell people,” said Miss 
Bussey. That’s the worst part of it.” 

“Poor dear! We’ll help,” cried Mary. “But 
I must write to Cannes.” 

“ Wire! ” cried John. 

“Of course, wire ! ” echoed Mary. 

“ The first thing to-morrow.” 

“ Before breakfast.” 

“ Mary, I shall never forget ” 

“ No, John, it’s you who — ” and they went off 
in a torrent of mutual laudation. 

Miss Bussey shook her head. 

“ If they think all that of one another, why don’t 
they marry ? ” she said. 


29 


CHAPTER IV 


THE TALE OF A POSTMARK 

“ Yes,” said Lady Deane, “ we leave to-day week ; 
Roger has to be back the first week in May, and I 
want to stop at one or two places en roiiter 

“ Let’s see. To-day’s the 19th, no, the 20th ; 
there’s nothing to remind one of time here. That’ll 
be the 27th. That’s about my date ; we might go 
together if you and Deane have no objection.” 

“Oh, I should be delighted. General; and shall 
you stay at all in Paris ? ” 

“A few days — just to show Dolly the sights.” 

“How charming! And you and I must have 
some expeditions together. Roger is so odd about 
not liking to take me.” 

“We’ll do the whole thing. Lady Deane,” an- 
swered General Bellairs heartily. “ Notre Dame, 
Versailles, the Invalides, Eiffel Tower.” 

Lady Deane’s broad white brow showed a little 
pucker. 

“That wasn’t quite what I meant,” said she. 
“ Oh, but Roger could take Dora to those, couldn’t 
he, while you and I made a point of seeing some of 
the real life of the people ? Of studying them in 
their ordinary resorts, their places of recreation and 
amusement.” 


30 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


“ Oh, the FraiKjais, and the opera, and so on, of 
course.” 

“No, no, no,” exclaimed Lady Deane, tapping 
her foot impatiently and fixing her grey eyes on the 
General’s now puzzled face. “Not the same old 
treadmill in Paris as in London! Not that. 
General ! ” 

“ What then, my dear lady? ” asked he. “Your 
wish is law to me,” and it was true that he had 
become very fond of his earnest young friend. 
“ What do you want to see ? The Chamber of 
Deputies ? ” 

Sir Roger’s voice struck in. 

“ I’m not a puritanical husband, Bellairs, but I 
must make a stand somewhere. Not the Cham- 
ber of Deputies.” 

“ Don’t be silly, Roger dear,” said Lady Deane, 
in her usual tone of dispassionate reproof. 

“ 1 can’t find out where she does want to go to,” 
remarked the General. 

“ I can tell you,” said Sir Roger; and he leant 
down and whispered a name in the General’s ear. 
The General jumped. 

“ Good heavens ! ” he exclaimed. “ I haven’t 
been there since the fifties. Is it still like what it 
used to be ? ” 

“How should I know?” inquired Sir Roger. 
“ I’m not a student of social phenomena. Maud 
is, so she wants to go.” 

Lady Deane was looking on with a quiet smile. 

“ She never mentioned it,” protested the General. 

31 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


‘‘ Oh, of course if there’s a worse place now ! ” 
conceded Sir Roger. 

“ I’ll make up my mind when we arrive,” observed 
Lady Deane. “ Anyhow, I shall rely on you. 
General.” 

The General looked a little uncomfortable. 

“ If Deane doesn’t object ” 

“I shouldn’t think of taking my wife to such 
places.” 

Suddenly Dora Bellairs rushed up to them. 

“ Have you seen Mr. Ellerton ? ” she cried. 
“ Where is he ? ” 

“In the smoking-room,” answered Sir Roger. 
“ Do you want him ? ” 

“Would you mind ? I can’t go in there: it’s 
full of men'' 

“ After all we must be somewhere,” pleaded Sir 
Roger, as he went on his errand. 

“ Dolly,” said the General, “ I’ve just made a 
charming arrangement. Lady Deane and Sir 
Roger start for Paris to-day week, and we’re going 
with them. You said you’d like another week 
here.” 

“It’s charming our being able to go together, 
isn’t it ? ” said Lady Deane. 

Dora’s face did not express rapture, yet she liked 
the Deanes very much. 

“ Oh, but — ” she began. 

“ Well ? ” asked her father. 

“ I rather want to go a little sooner.” 

“ I’m afraid,” said Lady Deane, “ we sha’n’t get 

32 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


Roger to move before then. He’s bent on seeing 
the tennis tournament through. When did you 
want to go, Dora ? ” 

“ Well, in fact — to-night.” 

“ My dear Dolly, what a weathercock you are ! 
It’s impossible. I’m dining with the Grand Duke 
on Monday. You must make up your mind to 
stay, young woman.” 

“ Oh, please, papa ” 

“ But why do you want to go ? ” asked the 
General, rather impatiently. 

Dora had absolutely no producible reason for her 
eagerness to go. And yet — oh, if they only knew 
what was at stake ! ‘‘We’re to be married in a 
fortnight ! ” She could see the words dancing be- 
fore her eyes. And she must waste a precious week 
here ! 

“ Do you want me. Miss Bellairs ? ” asked Charlie 
Ellerton, coming up to them. 

“ Yes. I want — oh, I want to go to Rumpel- 
mayer’s.” 

“ All right. Come along. I’m delighted to go 
with you.” 

They walked off in silence. Dora was in distress. 
She saw that the General was immovable. 

Suddenly Charlie turned to her and remarked, 
“ Well, it’s all over with me. Miss Bellairs.” 

“ What ? How do you mean ? ” 

“ My chance is gone. They’re to be married in 
a fortnight. I had a letter to say so this morning.” 

Dora turned suddenly to him. 

33 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 

“ Oh, but it’s too extraordinary,” she cried. “ So 
had I!” 

“What?” 

“ Why, a letter to say they were to be married 
in a fortnight.” 

“ Nonsense!” 

“ Yes. Mr. Ellerton — who — who is your friend? ” 
“ Her name’s Mary Travers.” 

“ And who is she going to marry ? ” 

“ Ah, she hasn’t told me that.” 

A suspicion of the truth struck them both. 
Charlie produced his letter. 

“She writes,” he said, showing the postmark, 
“ from Dittington.” 

“ It is ! It is ! ” she cried. “ It must be Mary 
Travers that Mr. Ashforth is going to marry 1 ” 

“ Is that your friend ? ” 

“ Yes. Is she pretty, Mr. Ellerton ? ” 

“ Oh, awfully. What sort of a fellow is he ? ” 

“ Splendid ! ” 

“ Isn’t it a deuced queer thing ? ” 

“Most extraordinary. And when we told one 

another we never thought ” 

“ How could we ? ” 

“ W ell, no, we couldn’t, of course.” 

A pause followed. Then Charlie observed, 

“ I suppose there’s nothing to be done.” 
“Nothing to be done, Mr. Ellerton! Why, if 
I were a man, I’d leave for England to-night.” 

“ And why can’t you ? ” 

“ Papa won’t. But you might.” 

34 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


“ Ye-es, I suppose I might. It would look rather 
odd, wouldn’t it ? ” 

“ Why, you yourself suggested it ! ” 

“ Yes, but the marriage was a long way off 
then.” 

“ There’s the more reason now for haste.” 

“ Of course that’s true ; but ” 

“ Oh, if papa would only take me 1 ” 

A sudden idea seemed to strike Charlie; he 
assumed an air of chivalrous sympathy. 

“ When shall you go ? ” he asked. 

“Not till to-day week,” she said. “We sha’n’t 
get to England till three or four days before — it.” 
Dora knew nothing of the proposed stay in Paris. 

“ Look here. Miss Bellairs,” said Charlie, “ we 
agreed to stand by one another. I shall wait and 
go when you do.” 

“ But think ” 

“ I’ve thought.” 

“You’re risking everything.” 

“ If she’ll break it off ten days before, she’ll do 
the same four days before.” 

“ If she really loves you she will.” 

“ Anyhow we’ll stand or fall together.” 

“ Oh, I oughtn’t to let you ; but I can’t refuse. 
How kind you are ! ” 

“ Then that’s settled,” said Charlie. “ And we 
must try to console one another till then.” 

“ The suspense is awful, isn’t it ? ” 

“Of course. But we must appear cheerful. 

We mustn’t betray ourselves.” 

35 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“Not for the world! I can never thank you 
enough. You’ll come with us all the way ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Thank you again.” 

She gave him her hand, which he pressed gently. 

“Hallo! ’’said he. “We seem to have got up 
by the church somewhere. Where were we going 
to?” 

“ Why, to Rumpelmayer’s.” 

“ Oh, ah ! Well, let’s go back to the hotel.” 

Wonderings on the extraordinary coincidence, 
with an occasional reference to the tender tie of 
a common sorrow which bound them together, 
beguiled the journey back, and when they reached 
the hotel Dora was quite calm. Charlie seemed 
distinctly cheerful, and when his companion left 
him he sat down by Deane and remarked in a care- 
less way, just as if he neither knew nor cared what 
the rest of them were going to do, 

“ W ell, I shall light out of here in a few days. 
I suppose you’re staying some time longer ? ” 

“ Off in a week,’ said Sir Roger. 

“Oh, by Jove, that’s about my mark. Going 
back to England ? ” 

“ Yes, I suppose so — ultimately. We shall stay 
a few days in Paris en route. The Bellairs go with 
us.” 

“ Oh, do they ? ” 

Sir Roger smiled gently. 

“ Surprised ? ” he asked. 

Charlie ignored the question. 

36 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


“ And you aren’t going to hurry ? ” he inquired. 

“ Why should we ? ” 

Charlie sat silent. It was tolerably plain that, 
unless the few days en route were very few indeed, 
John Ashforth and Mary Travers were in a fair 
way to be prosperously and peacefully married 
before Dora Bellairs set foot in England. And if 
he stayed with the Bellairs, before he did, either I 
Charlie lit a cigarette, and sat puffing and thinking. 

Dashed nice girl, Dora Bellairs,” observed Sir 
Roger. 

“ Think so ? ” 

‘‘ I do. She’s the only girl I ever saw that Laing 
was smitten with.” 

‘‘ Laing ! ” said Charlie. 

“ Well, what’s the matter ? He’s an uncommon 
good chap, Laing — one of the best chaps I know — 
and he’s got lots of coin. I don’t expect she’d 
sneeze at Laing.” 

It is, no doubt, taking a very serious responsi- 
bility to upset an arrangement arrived at deliber- 
ately and carried almost to a conclusion. A man 
should be very sure that he can make a woman 
happy — happier than any other man could— before 
he asks her to face the turmoil and the scandal of 
breaking off her marriage only a week before its 
celebration. Sure as he may be of his own affec- 
tion, he must be equally sure of hers, equally sure 
that their mutual love is deep and permanent. He 
must consider his claims to demand such a sacri- 
fice. What remorse will be his if, afterward, he 
37 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


discovers that what he did was not, in truth, for her 
real happiness ! He must be on his guard against 
mere selfishness or mere vanity masquerading in 
the garb of a genuine passion. 

As these thoughts occurred to Charlie Ellerton 
he felt that he was at a crisis of his life. He also 
felt glad that he had still a quiet w^eek at Cannes in 
which to revolve these considerations in his mind. 
Above all, he must do nothing hastily. 

Dora came out, a book in her hand. Her soft 
white frock fluttered in the breeze, and she pushed 
back a loose curl of dark hair that caressed her 
cheek. 

A dashed nice girl, upon my honour,” said Sir 
Roger Deane. 

“ Oh, very.” 

“ I say, old chap, I suppose you’re in no hurry ? 
You’ll put in a few days in Paris? We might 
have a day out, mightn’t we ? ” 

‘‘I don’t know yet,” said Charlie; and, when 
Deane left him, he sat on in sohtude. Was it pos- 
sible that in the space of a week — ? No, it was 
impossible. And yet, with a girl like that — 

“ I did the right thing in waiting to go with her, 
anyhow,” said Charlie, comforting himself. 


38 


CHAPTER V 


A SECOND EDITION 

“ Don’t you think it’s an interesting sort of title ? ” 
inquired Lady Deane of Mr. Laing. 

Laing was always a little uneasy in her presence. 
He felt not only that she was analysing him, but 
that the results of the analysis seemed to her to be 
a very small residuum of solid matter. Besides, he 
had been told that she had described him as a “com- 
monplace young man,” a thing nobody could be 
expected to like. 

“ Capital ! ” he answered, nervously fingering his 
eye-glass. “ ‘ The Transformation of Giles Brockle- 
ton ! ’ Capital ! ” 

“I think it will do,” said Lady Deane, com- 
placently. 

“ Er — what was he transformed into. Lady 
Deane ? ” 

“ A man,” replied the lady emphatically. 

“ Of course. I see,” murmured Laing apologeti- 
cally, stifling a desire to ask what Giles had been 
before. 

A moment later the author enlightened him. 

“Yes,” said she, “into a man, from a useless, 
mischievous, contemptible idler, a parasite, Mr. 
Laing, a creature to whom ” 

“ What did it. Lady Deane ? ” interrupted 
39 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


Laing hastily. He felt somehow as if he were cat- 
alogued. 

Just a woman’s influence.” 

Laing’s face displayed relief ; he felt that he was 
in his depth again. 

“ Oh, got married, you mean ? Well, of course, 
he’d have to pull up a bit, wouldn’t he ? Hang it, 
I think it’s a fellow’s duty ” 

‘‘You don’t quite understand me,” observed 
Lady Deane coldly. “He did not marry the 
woman.” 

“ What, did she give him the — I mean, wouldn’t 
she have him. Lady Deane ? ” 

“ She would have married him ; but beside her he 
saw himself in his true colours. Knowing what he 
was, how could he dare? That was his punish- 
ment, and punishment brought transformation.” 

As Lady Deane sketched her idea, her eyes 
kindled and her tone became animated. Laing ad- 
mired both her and her idea, and he expressed his 
feehngs by saying, 

“ Remarkable sort of chap. Lady Deane. I shall 
read it all right, you know. ” 

“ I think you ought,” said she, rising, and leav- 
ing him to wonder whether she had “ meant any- 
thing.” 

He gave himself a little shake, as though to es- 
cape from the atmosphere of seriousness which she 
had diffused about him, and looked round. A little 
way off he saw Dora Bellairs and Charlie Ellerton 
sitting side by side. His brow clouded. Before 
40 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


Charlie came it had been his privilege to be Miss 
Bellairs’ cavalier, and although he never hoped, nor, 
to tell the truth, desired more than a temporary fa- 
vour in her eyes, he did not quite like being ousted. 

“ Pretty good for a fellow^ who’s just got the 
bag ! ” he remarked scornfully, referring to Roger 
Deane’s unauthorised revelation. 

It was the day before the exodus to Paris. Dora’s 
period of weary waiting had worn itself away, and 
she was acknowledging to Charlie that the last two 
or three days had passed quicker than she had ever 
thought they could. 

“ The first two days I was wretched, the next 
two gloomy, but these last almost peaceful. In 
spite of— you know what — I think you’ve done me 
good on the whole.” 

“Don’t mention it,” said Charlie, flinging his 
arm over the back of the seat and looking at his 
companion. 

“And now, in the end,” pursued Dora, “I’m 
actually a little sorry to leave all this ; it’s so beau- 
tiful,” and she waved her parasol vaguely at the 
hills and the islands, while with the other hand she 
took off her hat and allowed the breeze to blow 
through her hair. 

“ It is jolly, isn’t it ? ” she asked. 

“I should rather think it was,” said Charlie. 
“ The jolliest I’ve ever seen.” It was evident that 
he did not refer to the scenery. 

“ Oh, you promised you wouldn t,’ cried Dora 

reproachfully. 

13 41 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“ Well, then, 111 promise again,” he replied, smil- 
ing amiably. 

What must I think of you, when only a week 
or so ago — ? Oh, and what must you think of me 
to suppose I could ? Oh, Mr. Ellerton ! ” 

“ Like to know what I think of you ? ” inquired 
Charlie, quite unperturbed by this passionate re- 
buke. 

“ Certainly not,” said she, with dignity ; and 
turned away. A moment later, however, she at- 
tacked him again. 

“ And you’ve done nothing,” she said indignant- 
ly, “ but suggest to papa interesting places to stop 
at on the way, and things he ought to see in Paris. 
Yes, and you actually suggested going home by 
sea from Marseilles. And all the time you knew 
it was vital to me to get home as soon as possible. 
To me? Yes, and to you last week. Shall I tell 
you something, Mr. Ellerton ? ” 

“ Please,” said Charlie. ‘‘ Whisper it in my 
ear ; ” and he offered his head in fitting proximity. 

“ I shouldn’t mind who heard,” she declared. ‘‘ I 
despise you, Mr. Ellerton.” 

Charlie was roused to a protest. 

“ For downright unfairness give me a girl ! ” said 
he. “ Here have I taken the manly course ! After 
a short period of weakness — I admit that — I have 
conquered my feelings ; I have determined not to 
distress Miss Travers by intruding on her; I have 
overcome the promptings of a cowardly despair; I 
have turned my back resolutely on a past devoid 
42 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


of hope. I am, after a sore struggle, myself again. 
And my reward. Miss Bellairs, is to be told that 
you despise me. Upon my honour, you’ll be de- 
spising Simon Stylites next.” 

“ And you wrote and told Miss Travers you were 
coming ! ” 

“ All right. I shall write and tell her I’m not 
coming. I shall say. Miss Bellairs, that it seems to 
me to be an undignified thing ” 

“ To do what I’m going to do ? Thank you, Mr. 
Ellerton.” 

“ Oh, I forgot.” 

“ The irony of it is that you persuaded me to do 
it yourself.” 

“ I was a fool ; but I didn’t know you so well 
then.” 

“ What’s that got to do with it ? ” 

“ Everything.” 

“You didn’t know yourself, I’m afraid,” she re- 
marked. “You thought you were a man of some 
— some depth of feeling, some constancy, a man 
whose — whose regard a girl would value, instead of 
being ■” 

“ Just a poor devil who worships the ground you 
tread on.” 

Dora laughed scornfully. 

“Second edition!” said she. “The first dedi- 
cated to Miss Travers.” 

And then Charlie (and it is things like this which 
shake that faith in human nature that we try to 
cling to) said in a low but quite distinct voice — 

43 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“ Oh, d n Miss Travers ! ” 

Dora shot — it almost looked as if something had 
shot her, as it used, in old days. Miss Zazel — up 
from her seat. 

“ I thought I was talking to a gentleman^ said 
she. ‘‘ I suppose you’ll use that — expression — 
about me in a week ? ” 

“ In a good deal less, if you treat me like this,” 
said Charlie, and his air was one of hopeless misery. 

We all recollect that Anne ended by being tol- 
erably kind to wicked King Richard. After all, 
Charlie had the same excuse. 

“ I don’t want to be unkind,” said Dora more 
gently. 

“ I’ll do anything in the world to please you.” 

“ Then make papa go straight to Paris, and 
straight on from Paris,” said Dora, using her power 
mercilessly. 

“ Oh, I say, I didn’t mean that. Miss Bellairs.” 

“You said you’d do anything I liked.” 

Charlie looked at her thoughtfully. 

“ I suppose you’ve no pity? ” he inquired. 

“ For you ? Not a bit.” 

“You probably don’t know how beautiful you 
are? ” 

“ Don’t be foolish, and — and impertinent.” 

She was standing opposite to him. With a sud- 
den motion, he sprang forward, fell on one knee, 
seized her ungloved hand, covered it with kisses, 
sprang up, and hastened away, crying as he went, 

“ All right. I’ll do it.” 

44 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


Dora stood where he left her. First she looked 
at her hand, then at Charlie’s retreating back, then 
again at her hand. Her cheek was flushed and she 
trembled a little. 

“John never did that,” she said, “at least, not 
without asking. And even then, not quite like 
that.” 

She walked on slowly, then stopped and ex- 
claimed, 

“ I wonder if he ever did that to Mary Travers !” 

And her last reflection was, 

“ Poor boy ! He must be — oh, dear me ! ” 

When Charlie reached the tennis-courts, he was, 
considering the moving scene through which he had 
passed, wonderfully calm. In fact, he was smiling 
and whistling. Espying Sir Roger Deane, he went 
and sat down by him. 

“ Roger,” said he. “ I’m going with you and 
the BeUairs, to-morrow.” 

“ I know that.” 

“ Miss Bellairs wants to go straight through to 
England without stopping anywhere.” 

“ She’ll have to want, I expect.” 

“ And I’ve promised to try and get the General 
to do what she wants.” 

“ Have you, though ? ” 

“ I suppose, Roger, old fellow — you know you’ve 
great influence with him — I suppose it’s no use ask- 
ing you to say a word to him ? ” 

“ Not a bit.” 

“ Why? ” 


45 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 

“ Because Maud particularly wants him to stay 
with us in Paris.” 

“Oh, of course, if Lady Deane wishes it, I 
mustn’t say a word. She’s quite made up her 
mind about it, has she? ” 

“ Well, I suppose so.” 

“ She’s strong on it, I mean? Not likely to 
change? ” 

“ I think not, Charlie.” 

“ She’d ask him to stay, as a favour to her? ” 

“ I shouldn’t at all wonder.” 

“Oh, well then, my asking him won’t make 
much difference.” 

“ Frankly, I don’t see why it should.” 

“ Thanks. I only wanted to know. You’re not 
in a hurry, Roger? I mean, you won’t ask your 
wife to go straight on ? ” 

“No, I shan’t, CharUe. I want to stop my- 
self.” 

“ Thanks, old chap ! See you at dinner ; ” and 
Charlie strolled off with a reassured air. 

Sir Roger sat and thought. 

“ I see his game,” he said to himself at last, “ but 
I’m hanged if I see hers. Why does she want to 
get back to England ? Perhaps if I delay her as 
much as I can, she’ll tell me. Hanged if I don’t ! 
Anyhow I’m glad to see old Charlie getting con- 
valescent.” 

The next morning the whole party left Cannes 
by the early train. The Bellairs, the Deanes, and 
Charlie EUerton travelled together. Laing an- 
46 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 

nounced his intention of following by the after- 
noon train. 

‘‘ Oh,” said Lady Deane, “ you’ll get to Paris 
sooner than we do.” 

Dora looked gloomy ; so did Charlie, after a mo- 
mentary, hastily smothered smile. 

The porter approached and asked for an address. 
They told him the Grand Hotel, Paris. 

If anything comes to-day. I’ll bring it on, said 
Laing. 

“Yes, do; we shall have no address before Paris,” 
answered General Bellairs. 

They drove off, and Laing, feeling rather solitary, 
returned to his cigar. An hour later the waiter 
brought him two telegrams, one for Dora and one 
for Charlie. He looked at the addresses. 

“Just too late, by Jove! All right, gar^on. 
I’ll take ’em; ” and he thrust them into the pocket 
of his flannel jacket. And when, after lunch, he 
could not stand the dulness any longer and went to 
Monte Carlo, he left the telegrams in the discarded 
flannels, where they lay till — the time when they 
were discovered. For Mr. Laing clean forgot all 
about them ! 


47 


CHAPTER VI 


A MAN WITH A THEORY 

Even Miss Bussey was inclined to think that all 
had happened for the best. John’s eloquence had 
shaken her first disapprobation; the visible happi- 
ness of the persons chiefly concerned pleaded yet 
more persuasively. What harm, after all, was done, 
except for a little trouble and a little gossip ? To 
these Mary and John were utterly indifferent. At 
first they had been rather shy in referring, before 
one another, to their loves, but custom taught 
them to mention the names without confusion, and 
ere long they had exchanged confidences as to their 
future plans. John’s arrangement was obviously 
the more prudent and becoming. He discounte- 
nanced Mary’s suggestion of an unannounced de- 
scent on Cannes, and persuaded her to follow his 
example and inform her lover that she would await 
news from him in Paris. They were to put up at 
the European, and telegrams there from Cannes 
would find them on and after April 28 th. All this 
valuable information was contained in the de- 
spatches, which lay, with their priceless messages, 
on the said April 28 th, in Mr. Arthur Laing’s flannel 
jacket, inside his portmanteau, on the way to Paris. 

Paris claims to be the centre of the world, and if 
it be, the world has a very good centre. Anyhow 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


Paris becomes, from this moment, the centre of this 
drama. Not only was Arthur Laing being whirled 
there by the Nice express, and Miss Bussey’s party 
proceeding thither by the eleven o’clock train from 
Victoria — Mary laughed as she thought it might 
have been her honeymoon she was starting on — but 
the Bellairs and their friends were heading for the 
same point. Miss Bussey’s party had the pleasanter 
journey; they were all of one mind; Miss Bussey 
was eager to reach Paris because it was the end of 
the journey; John and Mary desired nothing but 
the moment when with trembling fingers they 
should tear open their telegrams in the hall of the 
hotel. The expedition from the south did not en- 
joy a like unanimity; but before following their 
steps we may, in the interest of simplicity, land the 
first detachment safely at its destination. 

When Mary and John, followed by Miss Bussey 
— they outstripped her in their eagerness — entered 
the hotel, a young man with an eye-glass was just 
engaging a bedroom. John took his place beside 
the stranger, and asked in a voice, which he strove 
to render calm, if there were any letters for — 

‘‘ Beg pardon, sir. In one moment,” said the 
clerk, and he added to Laing, “Number 37, sir.” 
Laing — O irony of things ! — turned on John and 
his companion just that one supercilious glance 
which w^e bestow on other tourists, and followed 
his baggage upstairs. 

“Anything,” resumed John, “for Miss Travers 
or Mr. Ashforth ? ” And he succeeded in looking 
49 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 

as if he did not care a straw whether there were or 
not. 

After a search the porter answered, 

“Nothing, sir.” 

“ What ? ” exclaimed John, aghast. “ Oh, non- 
sense, look again.” 

Another search followed ; it was without result. 

John saw Mary’s appealing eyes fixed on him. 

“Nothing,” he said tragically. 

“ Oh, John 1 ” 

“Have you taken the rooms, John?” inquired 
Miss Bussey impatiently. 

“ No. I’m sorry. I forgot all about them.” 

Miss Bussey was tired; she had been seasick, 
and the train always made her feel queer. 

“ Has neither of you got an ounce of wits about 
you ? ” she demanded, and plunged forward to the 
desk. John and Mary received their numbers in 
gloomy silence, and mounted the stairs. 

Now Arthur Laing, in his hasty survey of the 
party, had arrived at a not unnatural but wholly 
erroneous conclusion. He had seen a young man, 
rather nervous, a young woman, looking anxious 
and shy, and an elderly person, plainly dressed 
(Miss Bussey was no dandy) sitting (Miss Bussey 
always sat as soon as she could) on a trunk. He 
took John and Mary for a newly-married couple, 
and Miss Bussey for an old family servant, de- 
tailed to look after her young mistress’s entry into 
independent housekeeping. 

“ More infernal honeymooners, ” he said to him- 
50 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


self, as he washed his hands. “ The place is 
always full of ’em. Girl wasn’t bad-looking, 
though.” 

The next morning, unhappily, confirmed him in 
his mistake. For Miss Bussey, overcome by the 
various trials of the day before, kept her bed, and 
when Laing came down, the first sight which met 
his eyes was a breakfast-table, whereat Mary and 
John sat tHe-a-tHe. He eyed them with that 
mixture of scorn and envy which their supposed 
situation awakens in a bachelor’s heart, and took a 
place from which he could survey them at leisure. 
There is a bright side to everything, and that of 
Laing’s mistake was the pleasure he derived from 
his delusion. Sticking his glass firmly in his eye, 
he watched like a cat for those playful little endear- 
ments which his cynical mood — he was, like many 
of us, not at his best in the morning — led him to 
anticipate. He watched in vain. The young 
people were decorum itself ; more than that, they 
showed signs of preoccupation; they spoke only 
occasionally, and then with a business-like brevity. 

Suddenly the waiter entered with a handful of 
letters, which he proceeded to distribute. Laing 
expected none, and kept his gaze on his honey- 
mooners. To his surprise they showed animation 
enough now; their eyes were fixed on the waiter’s 
approaching form; the bridegroom even rose an 
inch or two from his seat; both stretched out their 
hands. 

Alas, with a little bow, a smile, and a shrug, the 
51 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


waiter passed by, and the disappointed couple sank 
back, with looks of blank despair. 

Surely here was enough to set any open-minded 
man on the right track ! Yes; but not enough to 
free one who was tied and bound to his own 
theory. 

She’s dashed anxious to hear from home,” mused 
Laing. ‘‘ Poor girl ! It ain’t over and above flat- 
tering to him, though.” 

He finished his breakfast, and went out to smoke. 
Presently he saw his friends come out also ; they 
went to the porter’s desk, and he heard one of them 
say “telegram.” A sudden idea struck him. 

“ I am an ass ! ” said he. “ Tell you what it is ; 
they’ve wired for rooms somewhere — Monte, most 
likely — and can’t start till they get an answer.” 

He was so pleased with his explanation that his 
last doubt vanished, and he watched Mary and 
John start for a walk — the fraternal relations they 
had established would have allowed such a thing 
even in London, much more in Paris — with a most 
benevolent smile. 

“Aunt Sarah is really quite poorly,” remarked 
Mary, as they crossed the road and entered the 
Tuileries Gardens. “ She’ll have to stay in all to- 
day and perhaps to-morrow. Isn’t it hard on her? 
Paris amuses her so much.” 

John expressed his sympathy. 

“Now, if it had been you or I,” he ended, “we 
shouldn’t have minded. Paris doesn’t amuse us 
just now.” 


62 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


“ Oh, but, John, we must be ready to start at 
any moment.” 

“ You can’t start without Miss Bussey.” 

“ I think that in a wagon-lit — ” began Mary. 

‘‘ But what’s the good of talking? ” cried John 
bitterly. “ Why is there no news from her ? ” 

“ He might have wired. John, is it possible our 
telegrams went astray ? ” 

“ Well, we must wait a day or two; or, if you 
like, we can wire again.” 

Mary hesitated. 

‘‘ I — I can’t do that, John. Suppose he’d re- 
ceived the first, and — and ” 

“ Yes, I see. I don’t want to humihate myself 
either.” 

“ W e’ll wait a day, anyhow. And, now, J ohn, let’s 
think no more about them ! Oh, well, that’s non- 
sense ; but let’s enjoy ourselves as well as we can.” 

They managed to enjoy themselves very well. 
The town was new to Mary, and John found a 
pleasure in showing it off to her. After a morning 
in sight-seeing, they drove in the Bois, and ended 
the day at the theatre. Miss Bussey, unfortunate- 
ly, was no better. She had sent for an English 
doctor, and he talked vaguely about two or three 
days in bed. Mary ventured to ask whether her 
aunt could travel. 

‘‘ Oh, if absolutely necessary, perhaps ; but much 
better not,” was the answer. 

Well, it was not absolutely necessary yet, for 
no letter and no telegram arrived. This was the 
53 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


awful fact that greeted them when they came in 
from the theatre. 

‘‘ Well wire the first thing to-morrow,” declared 
John in a resolute tone. “ Write yours to-night, 
Mary, and 111 give them to the porter ” 

“ Oh, not mine, please,” cried Mary in shrinking 
bashfulness. “ I can’t let the porter see mine ! ” 

“ Well, then, we’ll take them out before break- 
fast to-morrow.” 

To this Mary agreed; and they sat down and 
wrote their despatches. While they were so en- 
gaged, Laing jumped out of a cab and entered the 
room. He seized an English paper, and, flinging 
himself into a chair, began to study the sporting 
news. Presently he stole a glance at Mary. It so 
chanced that just at the same moment she was 
steahng a glance at him. Mary dropped her eyes 
with a blush ; Laing withdrew behind his paper. 

‘‘Shy, of course. Anybody would be,” he 
thought, with a smile. 

“ Did you like the piece, Mary ? ” asked John. 

“Oh, very much. I wish Aunt Sarah could 
have seen it. She missed so much fun.” 

“Well, she could hardly have come with us, 
could she ? ” remarked John. 

“ Oh no,” said Mary. 

“Well, I should rather think not,” whispered 
Laing, who failed to identify “ Aunt Sarah ” with 
the elderly person on the trunk. 

“ I shouldn’t have been happy if she had,” said 
Mary. 


54 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 

‘‘I simply wouldn’t have let her,” said John in 
that authoritative tone which so well became him. 

“No more would I in your place, old chap,” 
murmured Mr. Laing. 

Mary rose. 

“ Thanks for all your kindness, John. Good- 
night.” 

“ I’m so glad you’ve had a pleasant day. Good- 
night, Mary.” 

So they parted — with a good-night as calm, as 
decorous, as frankly fraternal as one could wish (or 
wish otherwise). Yet its very virtues undid it in 
the prematurely suspicious eyes of Arthur Laing. 
For no sooner was he left alone than he threw 
down his paper and began to chuckle. 

“All for my benefit, that, eh? Good-night, 
Mary ! Good-night, John ! Lord ! Lord ! ” and 
he rose, lit a cigarette, and ordered a brandy and 
soda. And ever and again he smiled. He felt 
very acute. 

So vain is it for either wisdom or simplicity, can- 
dour or diplomacy — nay, for facts themselves — to 
struggle against a Man with a Theory. Mr. Laing 
went to bed, no more doubting that Mary and 
John were man and wife, than he doubted that he 
had “spotted” the winner of the Derby. Certi- 
tude could no farther go. 


55 


CHAPTER VII 


THE SIGHTS OF AVIGNON 

“It’s a curious thing,” observed Roger Deane, 
“ but this fellow Baedeker always travels the oppo- 
site way to what I do. When I’m coming back, 
he’s always going out, and vke versa. It makes 
him precious difficult to understand, I can tell you. 
Miss Dora. However, I think I’ve got him now. 
Listen to this. ‘ Marseilles to Arles (Amphitheatre 
starred) one day. Arles to Avignon (Palace of 
the Popes starred) two days — slow going that — 
Avignon to ’ ” 

“ Do you want to squat in this wretehed coun- 
try, Sir Roger ? ” demanded Dora angrily. 

A faint smile played round Sir Roger’s lips. 

“ You’re the only one who’s in a hurry,” he re- 
marked. 

“ No, I’m not. Mr. EUerton is in just as much 
of a hurry.” 

“ Then he bears disappointment better.” 

“ What in the world did papa and— well, and 
Lady Deane, you know — want to stop here for? ” 

“ You don’t seem to understand how interesting 
Marseilles is. Let me read you a passage : ‘ Mar- 
seilles was a colony founded about 600 b.c.’ — What? 
Oh, all right! We’ll skip a bit. ‘ In 1792 hordes 
of galley-slaves were sent hence to Paris, where 
66 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 

they committed frightful excesses.’ That’s what 
Maud and your father are going to do. ‘ It was 
for them that Rouget — ’ I say, what’s the mat- 
ter, Miss Dora ? ” 

“ I don’t know why you should enjoy teasing 
me, but you have nearly made me cry, so perhaps 
you’ll be happy now.” 

‘‘ You tried to take me in. I pretended to be 
taken in. That’s all.” 

“ Well, it was very unkind of you.” 

“ So, after all, it’s not a matter of indifference to 
you at what rate we travel, as you said in the train 
to-day ? ” 

“ Oh, I had to. I — I couldn’t let papa see.” 

“And why are you in a hurry ? ” 

“ I can’t tell you ; but I must — oh, I must ! — be 
in England in four days.” 

“ You’ll hardly get your father to give up a day 
at Avignon.” 

“ Well, one day there ; then we should just do 
it, if we only slept in Paris.” 

“ Yes, but my wife ” 

“ Oh, you can stay. Don’t say anything about 
Paris yet. Help me to get there. I’ll make papa 
go on. Please do. Sir Roger. I shall be so aw- 
fully obliged to you ; so will Mr. Ellerton.” 

“ Charlie Ellerton ? Not he ! He’s in no hurry.” 

“ What do you mean ? Didn’t you hear him 
to-day urging papa to travel straight through ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, I heard that.” 

“ Well?” 

14 


57 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“ You were there then.” 

“ What of that ? ” 

“ He’s not so pressing when you’re away.” 

“ I don’t understand. Why should he pretend 
to be in a hurry when he isn’t ? ” 

“ Ah, I don’t know. Don’t you ? ” 

“ Not in the least, Sir Roger. But never mind 
Mr. EUerton. Will you help me ? ” 

“As far as Paris. You must look out for your- 
self there.” 

These terms Dora accepted. Surely at Paris 
she would hear some news of or from John Ash- 
forth. She thought he must have written one 
line in response to her last letter, and that his an- 
swer must have been so far delayed as to arrive at 
Cannes after her departure ; it would be waiting 
for her at Paris and would tell her whether she 
was in time or whether there was no more use in 
hurrying. The dread that oppressed her was lest, 
arriving too late in Paris, she should find that she 
had missed happiness by reason of this wretched 
dawdling in Southern France. 

Seeing her meditative, Deane slipped away to 
his cigar, and she sat in the hotel hall, musing. 
Deane’s revelation of Charhe’s treachery hardly sur- 
prised her ; she meant to upbraid him severely, but 
she was conscious that, if little surprised, she was 
hardly more than a little angry. His conduct was 
indeed contemptible, it revealed an utter instability 
and fickleness of mind which made her gravely un- 
easy as to Mary Travers’s chances of permanent 
58 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 

happiness. Yes, scornful one might be ; but who 
could be seriously angry with the poor boy ? And 
perhaps, after all, she did him injustice. Some 
natures were more prone than others to sudden 
passions; it really did not follow that a feeling 
must be either shallow or short-lived because it was 
sudden ; whether it survived or passed away would 
depend chiefly on the person who excited it. 
Clearly Mary Travers was incapable of maintaining 
a permanent hold over Charlie’s affections, but 
another girl might be — might have been more suc- 
cessful. It would perhaps be a pity if Charlie and 
Mary Travers were to come together again. Were 
they really suited to one another? She pictured 
Mary as a severe, rather stern young woman ; and 
she hardly knew whether to laugh or groan at the 
thought of Charlie adapting himself to such a mate. 
Meanwhile her own position was certainly very dif- 
ficult, and she acknowledged its thorniness with a 
little sigh. To begin with, the suspense was terri- 
ble ; at times she would have been almost relieved 
to hear that John was married beyond recall. Then 
Charlie was a great and a growing difficulty. He 
had not actually repeated the passionate indiscre- 
tion of which he had been guilty at Cannes, but 
more and more watchfulness and severity were 
needed to keep him within the bounds proper to 
their relative positions; and it was odious to be 
disagreeable to a fellow-traveller, especially when 
he was such a good and devoted friend as Char- 
lie. 


69 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


Sir Roger loyally carried out his bargain. Lady 
Deane was hurried on, leaving Marseilles, with its 
varied types of humanity and its profound social 
significance, practically unexplored : Arles and 
Amphitheatre, in spite of the beckoning “star,” 
were dropped out of the programme, and the next 
day found the party at Avignon. Now they were 
once more for a moment in harmony. Dora could 
spare twenty-four hours; Lady Deane and the 
General were molhfied by conscious unselfishness; 
the prospect of a fresh struggle at Paris lay well in 
the background and was discreetly ignored ; Charlie 
Ellerton, who had reached the most desperate 
stage of love, looked neither back nor forward. It 
was enough for him to have wrung four and twenty 
hours of Dora’s company from fate’s reluctant 
grasp. He meant to make the most of them. 

She and he sat, on the afternoon of their arrival, 
in the gardens, hard by the Cathedral, where Lady 
Deane and the General were doing their duty. Sir 
Roger had chartered a cab and gone for a drive on 
the boulevards. 

“And we shall really be in Paris to-morrow 
night ? ” said Dora. “ And in England, I hope, six 
and thirty hours afterward ! I want papa to cross 
the next evening. Mr. Ellerton, I believe we shall 
be in time.” 

Charlie said nothing. He seemed to be en- 
grossed by the magnificent view before him. 

“ Well ? Have you nothing to say ? ” she asked. 

“ It’s a sin to rush through a place like this,” he 
60 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 

observed. “We ought to stay a week. There’s 
no end to see. It’s an education I ” 

By way, probably, of making the most of his 
brief opportunity, he went on gazing, across the 
river which flowed below, now towards the heights 
of Mont Ventoux, now at the ramparts of Ville- 
neuve. Dora, on the other hand, fixed pensive 
eyes on his curly hatless head, which leant forward 
as he rested his elbows on his knees. He had re- 
ferred to the attractions of Avignon in tones of 
almost overpowering emotion. 

Presently he turned his head towards her with a 
quick jerk. 

“ I don’t want to be in time,” he said; and, with 
equal rapidity, he returned to his survey of Ville- 
neuve. 

Dora made no answer, unless a perplexed wrinkle 
on her brow might serve for one. A long silence 
followed. It was broken at last by Charlie. He 
left the landscape, with a sigh of satisfaction, as 
though he could not reproach himself with having 
neglected it, and directed his gaze into his compan- 
ion’s eyes. Dora blushed and pulled the brim of 
her hat a little lower down on her forehead. 

‘ ‘ What’s more,” said Charlie in deliberate tones, 
as if no pause had occurred between this remark 
and his last, “ I don’t believe you do.” 

Dora started and straightened herself in her 
seat ; it looked as if the rash remark were to be 
met with a burst of indignation, but, a second later, 
she leant back again and smiled scornfully. 

61 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 

“ How can you be so silly, Mr. EUerton ? ” she 
asked. 

“ We both of us,” pursued Charlie, ‘‘ see now 
that we made up our minds to be very foolish; we 
both of us mistook our real feehngs ; we re begin- 
ning at least I began some time ago, and you’re 
beginning now— to understand the true state of 
affairs.” 

“ Oh, I know what you mean, and I ought to 
be very angry, I suppose ; but it’s too absurd.” 

“Not in the least. The absurd thing is your 
fancying that you care about this fellow Ash- 
forth.” 

“ No, you must really stop, you must indeed. I 
don’t ” 

“ I know the sort of fellow he is — a dull, dry 
chap, who makes love as if he was dancing a 
minuet.” 

“You’re quite wrong.” 

“And kisses you as if it was part of the church 
service.” 

This last description, applied to John Ashforth’s 
manner of wooing, had enough of aptness to stir 
Dora into genuine resentment. 

A girl doesn t like a man less because he re- 
spects her ; nor more because he ridicules better 
men than himself.” 

I’m only saying what’s true. 
Why should I want to run him down ? ” 

“ I suppose — well, I suppose because ” 

“Well?” 


62 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


‘‘You’re a little bit — but I don’t think I ought 
to talk about it.” 

“ Jealous, you were going to say.” 

“ Was I?” 

“ And that shows you know what I mean.” 

“Well, by now I suppose I do. I can’t help 
your doing it or I would.” 

Charlie moved closer, and leaning forward till his 
face was only a yard from hers, while his hand, 
sliding along the back of the seat, almost touched 
her, said in a low voice, 

“ Are you sure you would ? ” 

Dora’s answer was a laugh — a laugh with a hint 
of nervousness in it. Perhaps she knew what was 
in it, for she looked away towards the river. 

“ Dolly,” he whispered, “ shall I go back to 
Cannes? Shall I?” 

Perhaps the audacity of this per saltum advance 
from the distance of “ Miss Bellairs ” to the ineffa- 
ble assumption involved in “Dolly” made the sub- 
ject of it dumb. 

“ I will, if you ask me,” he said, as she was silent 
for a space. 

Then, with profile towards him and eyes away, 
she murmured, 

“ What would Miss Travers say if you turned 


back now ? ” 

The mention of Mary did not on this occasion 
evoke any unseemly words. On the contrary, 
Charlie smiled. He glanced at his companion. 
He glanced behind him and round him. Then, 


63 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


drilling his deep design into the semblance of an 
uncontrollable impulse, he seized Dora’s hand in 
his and, before she could stir, kissed her cheek. 

She leapt to her feet. 

“ How dare you ? ” she cried. 

‘‘ How could I help it ? ” 

‘‘I’ll never speak to you again. No gentleman 
would have — oh, I do hope you’re ashamed of your- 
self ! ” 

Her words evidently struck home. With an air 
of contrition he sank on the seat. 

“ I’m a beast,” he said ruefully. “You’re quite 
right. Miss Bellairs. Don’t have anything more to 
say to me. I wish I was — I wish I had some — some 
self-control — and self-respect, you know. If I were a 
fellow like Ashforth now, I should never have done 
that ! Of course you can’t forgive me ; ” and, in his 
extremity of remorse, he buried his face in his hands. 

Dora stood beside him. She made one step as 
if to leave him ; a glance at him brought her back, 
and she looked down at him for a minute. Pres- 
ently a troubled, doubtful little smile appeared on 
her face; when she realised it was there, she 
promptly banished it. Alas! It was too late. 
The rascal had been peeping through his fingers, 
and, with a ringing laugh, he sprang to his feet, 
caught both her hands, and cried, 

“ Shocking, wasn’t it ? Awful ? ” 

“ Let me go, Mr. Ellerton.” 

“ Must I ? ” 

“ Yes, yes.” 


64 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


“ Why ? Why, when you ? ” 

‘‘ Sir Roger’s coming. Look behind you.” 

“ Oh, the deuce ! ” 

An instant later they were sitting demurely at 
opposite ends of the seat, inspecting Villeneuve 
with interest. 

In another moment Deane stood before them, 
puffing a cigarette and wearing an expression of 
amiability tempered by boredom. 

“ Wonderful old place, isn’t it, Deane ? ” asked 
Charlie. 

“ Such a view. Sir Roger ! ” cried Dora, in almost 
breathless enthusiasm. 

‘‘You certainly,” assented Deane, “do see some 
wonderful sights on this promenade. I’m glad I came 
up. The air’s given you quite a colour. Miss Dora.” 

“ It’s tea-time,” declared Dora suddenly. “ Take 
me down with you. Sir Roger. Mr. Ellerton, go 
and tell the others we’re going home to tea.” 

Charlie started off, and Sir Roger strolled along 
by Miss Bellairs’s side. Presently he said, 

“ Still anxious to get to Paris ? ” 

“ Why shouldn’t I be ? ” she asked quickly. 

“ I thought perhaps the charms of Avignon 
would have decided you to linger. Haven’t you 
been tempted ? ” 

Dora glanced at him, but his face betrayed no 
secondary meaning. 

“Tempted? Oh, perhaps,” she answered, with 
the same nervous little laugh, “ but not quite led 
astray. I’m going on.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


MR. AND MRS. ASHFORTH (1) 

All that evening Miss Bellairs was not observed 
— and Deane watched her very closely — to address 
a word to Charlie Ellerton ; even ‘‘ good-night ” was 
avoided by a premature disappearance and unex- 
pected failure to return. Perhaps it was part of the 
same policy of seclusion which made her persuade 
Lady Deane to travel to Paris with her in one com- 
partment and relegate the men to another — a pro- 
posal which the banished accepted by an enthusias- 
tic majority of two to one. The General foresaw 
an infinity of quiet naps and Deane uninterrupted 
smoking; Charlie alone chafed against the necessary 
interruption of his bold campaign, but, in face of 
Dora s calm coldness of aspect, he did not dare to 
lift up his voice. 

Lady Deane was so engrossed in the study — or 
the search for opportunities of study — of sides of 
life with which she was unfamiliar as to be, for the 
most part, blind to what took place immediately 
around her. General Bellairs himself (who vaguely 
supposed that some man might try to make love to 
his daughter five years hence, and thereupon be 
promptly sent off with a flea in his ear) was not 
more unconscious than she that there was, had been, 
66 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


or might be anything, as the phrase runs, “be- 
tween ” the two junior members of the party. 
Lady Deane had no hints to give and no questions 
to ask ; she seated herself placidly in a corner and 
began to write in a large note-book. She had been 
unwillingly compelled to “ scamp ” Marseilles, but, 
as she wrote, she found that the rough notes she 
was copying, aided by fresh memory, supplied her 
with an ample fund of material. Alternately she 
smiled contentedly to herself, and gazed out of the 
window with a preoccupied air. Clearly a plot was 
brewing, and the author was grateful to Dora for 
restricting her interruptions to an occasional impa- 
tient sigh and the taking up and dropping again of 
her Tauchnitz. 

With the men tongues moved more. 

“Well, General,” said Deane, “what’s Miss 
Dora’s ultimatum about your staying in Paris? ” 

Charlie pricked up his ears and buried his face 
behind La Vie Parisienne, 

“ You’ll think me very weak, Deane,” rejoined 
the General with an apologetic laugh, “ but I’ve 
promised to go straight on if she wants me to.” 

“ And does she? ” 

“ I don’t know what the child has got in her 
head, but she says she’ll tell me when she gets to 
Paris. We shall have a day with you anyhow; I 
don’t think she’s so set on not staying as she was, 
but I don’t profess to understand her fancies. Still, 
as you see, I yield to them.” 

“ Man’s task in the world,” said Deane. “ Eh, 
67 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 

Charlie ? What are you hiding behind that paper 
for?” 

‘‘ I was only looking at the pictures.” 

“Quite enough too. You’re going to stay in 
Paris, aren’t you ? ” 

“Don’t know yet, old fellow. It depends on 
whether I get a letter calling me back or not.” 

“ Hang it, one might as well be in a house where 
the shooting turns out a fraud. Nobody knows 
that he won’t have a wire any morning and have to 
go back to to\\Ti. My wife’U be furious if you 
desert her. General.” 

“ Oh, I hope it won’t come to that.” 

“ I hope awfully that I shall be able to stay,” 
said Charlie with obvious sincerity. 

“ Then,” observed Deane with a slight smile, “ if 
the General and Miss Bellairs leave us you can 
take my wife about.” 

“ I should think you might take her yourself; ” 
and he kicked Deane gently. He was afraid of 
arousing the General’s dormant suspicions. 

It was late at night when they arrived in Paris, 
but the faithful Laing was on the platform to meet 
them, and received them with a warm greeting. 
While the luggage was being collected by Deane’s 
man, they stood and talked on the platform. Pres- 
ently the General, struck by a sudden thought, 
asked, 

“ I suppose nothing came for us at Cannes, eh, 
Laing? You said you’d bring anything on, you 
know.” 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


Laing interrupted a pretty speech which he was 
trying to direct into Dora’s inattentive ears. 

“ Beg pardon, General ? ” 

“No letters for any of us before you left 
Cannes ? ” 

“No, Gen — ” he began, but suddenly stopped. 
His mouth remained open and his glass fell from 
his eye. 

The General, not waiting to hear more than the 
first word, had rushed off to hail a cab, and Deane 
was escorting his wife. Dora and Charlie stood 
waiting for the unfinished speech. 

The end came slowly and with a prodigious em- 
phasis of despair. 

“ Oh, by Jove ! ” 

“ Well, Mr. Laing ? ” said Dora. 

“ The morning you left — just after — there were 
two telegrams.” 

“ For me? ” cried each of his auditors. 

“ One for each of you, but ” 

“ Oh, give me mine.” 

“ Hand over mine, old chap.” 

“ I — I haven’t got ’em.” 

“ What ? ” 

“ I — I’m awfully sorry, I — I forgot ’em.” 

“ Oh, how tiresome of you, Mr. Laing ! ” 

“ Send ’em round first thing to-morrow, Laing.” 

“ But — but I don’t know where I put ’em. I 
know I laid ’em down. Then 1 took ’em up. 
Then I put ’em — where the deuce did I put ’em ? 
Here’s a go. Miss Bellairs ! I say, I am an ass ! ” 

69 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


No contradiction assailed him. His victims 
glared reproachfully at him. 

‘‘I must have left them at Cannes. I’ll wire 
first thing in the morning, Miss Bellairs; I’ll get 
up as soon as ever the office is open. I say, do for- 
give me.” 

“ Well, Mr. Laing, I’ll try, but ” 

“ Laing 1 Here ! My wife wants you,” shouted 
Sir Roger ; and the criminal, happy to escape, ran 
away, leaving Dora and Charlie alone. 

“ They must have been from them^' murmured 
Dora. 

“No doubt; and that fool Laing ” 

“ What has he done with them ? ” 

“ Lit his pipe with them, I expect.” 

“ Oh, what shall we do ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ What — what do you think they said, Mr. El- 
lerton? ” 

“ How can I tell ? Perhaps that the marriage 
was off! ” 

“ Oh ! ” escaped from Dora. 

“ Perhaps that it was going on.” 

“ It’s worse than ever. They may have asked 
for answers.” 

“ Probably.” 

“ And they won’t have written here ! ” 

“ Sure not to have.” 

“ And^ — and I sha’n’t know what to do. I — I 
believe it was to say he had broken off the mar- 
riage.” 


70 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 

“ Is the wish father to the thought ? ” 

The lights of the station flickered, but Charlie 
saw, or thought he saw, a hasty, unpremeditated 
gesture of protest. 

“ Dolly ! ” he whispered. 

Hush, hush ! How can you now — before we 
know? ” 

“The cab’s waiting,” called Deane. “Come 
along.” 

They got in in silence. The General and the 
Deanes went first, and the three young people fol- 
lowed in a second vehicle. It was but just twelve, 
and the boulevards were gay and full of people. 

Suddenly, as they were near the Opera, they 
saw the tall figure of an unmistakable English- 
man walking away from them down the Avenue 
de rOpera. Dora clutched Charlie’s arm with a 
convulsive grip. 

“ Hallo, what’s the — ? ” he began ; but a second 
pinch enforced silence. 

“See that chap ? ” asked Laing, pointing to the 
figure. “ He’s at my hotel.” 

“ Is he ? ” said Dora in a faint voice. 

“ Yes ; I’ve got a good deal of amusement out of 
him. He oughtn’t to be out so late though, and 
by himself, too I ” 

“ Who is it ? ” asked Charlie. 

“ I don’t know his name.” 

“ And why oughtn’t he to be out? ” 

“ Because he’s on his honeymoon.” 

“ What ? ” cried Dora. 

71 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“Just married,” explained Laing. “Wife’s a 
tallish girl, fair, rather good-looking ; looks stand- 
offish though.” 

“You — you’re sure they’re married, Mr. Laing ? ” 
gasped Dora ; and Charlie, in whom her manner 
had awakened a suspicion of the truth, also waited 
eagerly for the reply. 

“What, Miss Bellairs?” asked Laing in sur- 
prise. 

“ Oh, I mean — I mean you haven’t made a 
mistake ? ” 

“ Well, they’re together all day, and nobody’s 
with them except a lady’s-maid. I should think 
that’s good enough.” 

With a sigh Dora sank back against the cushions. 
They were at the hotel now ; the others had already 
entered, and, bidding Laing a hearty good-night, 
Dora ran in, followed closely by Charlie. He did 
not overtake her before she found her father. 

“Well, Dolly,” said the General, “there’s no 
letter.” 

“ Oh,” cried Dolly, “ I’ll stay as long as ever 
you like, papa.” 

“ That’s right,” said Deane. “ And you, Charlie ? ” 

Charlie took his cue. 

“ A month if you like.” 

“ Capital ! Now for a wash — come along, Maud 
— and then supper ! ” 

Dora lingered behind the others, and Charlie 
with her. Directly they were alone, he asked, 

“ What does it all mean ? ” 

72 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


She sat down, still panting with agitation. 

“ Why — why, that man we saw — the man Mr. 

Laing says is on his honeymoon, is — is ” 

“ Yes, yes ? ” 

“Mr. Ashforth!” 

“ Dolly ! And his wife ! By Jove ! It’s an 
exact description of Mary Travers ! ” 

“ The telegrams were to say the marriage was to 
be at once.” 

“ Yes, and they’re married ! ” 

“ Yes ! ” 

A short pause marked the astounding conclusion. 
Then Charlie came up very close and whispered, 

“ Are you broken-hearted, Dolly ? ” 

She turned her face away with a blush. 

“ Are you, Dolly ? ” 

“ I’m very much ashamed of myself,” she mur- 
mured. “ Oh, Mr. Ellerton, not just yet ! ” And 
in deference to her entreaty Charlie had the grace 
to postpone what he was about to do. 

When the supper was ready. Sir Roger Deane 
looked round the table inquiringly. 

“ W ell,” said he, “ what is it to be ? ” 

“ Champagne — champagne in magnums ! ” cried 
Charlie Ellerton with a triumphant laugh. 


15 


73 


CHAPTER IX 


MR. AND MRS. ASHFORTH (2) 

Miss Bussey was much relieved when the doctor 
pronounced her convalescent, and allowed her to 
come downstairs. To fall ill on an outing is always 
exasperating, but beyond that she felt that her 
enforced seclusion was particularly unfortunate at 
the moment. Here were two young people, not 
engaged nor going to be engaged to one another; 
and for three days or more circumstances had 
abandoned them to an inevitable and unchaperoned 
tete-a-tete! Mary made light of it; she relied on 
the fraternal relationship; but that was, after all, a 
fiction, quite incapable, in Miss Bussey’s opinion, 
of supporting the strain to which it had been sub- 
jected. Besides, Mary’s sincerity appeared doubt- 
ful ; the kind girl, anxious to spare her aunt worry, 
minimised the difficulties of her position; but Miss 
Bussey detected a restlessness in her manner which 
clearly betrayed uneasiness. Here, of course. Miss 
Bussey was wrong; neither Mary nor John were 
the least self-conscious ; they felt no embarrass- 
ment, but, poor creatures, wore out their spirits in 
a useless vigil over the letter-rack. 

Miss Bussey was restored to active life on the 
morning after the party from Cannes arrived in 
Paris, and she hastened to emphasise the fact of 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


her return to complete health by the unusual effort 
of coming down to breakfast. She was in high 
feather, and her cheery conversation lifted, to some 
extent, the gloom which had settled on her young 
friends. While exhorting to patience, she was full 
of hope, and dismissed as chimerical all the darker 
explanations which the disconsolate lovers invented 
to account for the silence their communications 
had met with. Under her influence the breakfast- 
table became positively cheerful, and at last all the 
three burst into a hearty laugh at one of the old 
lady’s little jokes. 

At this moment Arthur Laing entered the room. 
His brow was clouded. He had searched his purse, 
his cigar-case, the lining of his hat — in fact, every 
depository where a careful man would be likely to 
bestow documents whose existence he wished to 
remember; as no careful man would put such 
things in the pocket of his “blazer,” he had not 
searched there ; thus the telegrams had not ap- 
peared, and the culprit was looking forward, with 
some alarm, to the reception which would await 
him when he “ turned up ” to lunch with his friends, 
as he had promised to do. Hardly, however, had 
he sat down to his coffee when his sombre thoughts 
were cleared away by the extraordinary spectacle 
of young Mr. and Mrs. Ashforth hobnobbing with 
their maid, the latter lady appearing quite at home 
and leading the gaiety and the conversation. Laing 
laid down his roll and his knife and looked at them 
in undisguised amazement. 

75 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


For a moment doubt of his cherished theory 
began to assail his mind. He heard the old lady 
call Ashforth “ John ” ; that was a little strange ; 
and it was rather strange that John answered by 
saying: That must be as you wish ; I am entirely 

at your disposal.” And yet, reflected Laing, was 
it very strange, after all ? In his own family they 
had an old retainer who called all the children, 
whatever their age, by their Christian names, and 
was admitted to a degree of intimacy hardly dis- 
tinguishable from that accorded to a relative. 

Laing, weighing the evidence pro and contra^ 
decided that there was an overwhelming balance in 
favour of his old view, and dismissed the matter 
with the comment that, if it ever befell him to go 
on a wedding-tour, he would ask his wife to take a 
maid with rather less claims on her kindness and 
his toleration. 

That same morning the second pair of telegrams, 
forwarded by post from Cannes, duly arrived. 
Dora and Charlie, reading them in the light of their 
recent happy information, found them most kind 
and comforting, although in reality they, apart from 
their missing forerunners, told the recipients noth- 
ing at all. John’s ran : ‘‘ Am in Paris at European. 
Please write. Anxious to hear. Everything de- 
cided for the best. — ^John.” Mary’s to Charlie was 
even briefer; it said: “Am here at European. 
Why no answer to last ? ” 

“It’s really very kind of Mr. Ashforth,” said 
Dora to Charlie, as they strolled in the garden of 
76 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 

the Tuileries, “ to make such a point of what I 
think. I expect the wire that stupid Mr. Laing 
lost was just to tell me the date of the mar- 
riage.” 

“Not a doubt of it. Miss Tr — Mrs. Ashforth’s 
wire to me makes that clear. They want to hear 
that were not desperately unhappy. Well, we 
aren’t, are we, Dolly?” 

“ Well, perhaps not.” 

“ Isn’t it extraordinary how we mistook our feel- 
ings ? Of course, though, it’s natural in you. You 
had never been through anything of the sort before. 
How could you tell whether it was the real thing 
or not ? ” 

Dora shot a glance out of the corner of her eye 
at her lover, but did not disclaim the innocence he 
imputed to her; she knew men liked to think that, 
and why shouldn’t they, poor things ? She seized 
on his implied admission, and carried the war into 
his country. 

“ But you — you who are so experienced — how 
did you come to make such a mistake ? ” 

Charlie was not at a loss. 

“It wasn’t a mistake then,"' he said. “I was 
quite right then. Mary Travers was about the 
nicest girl I had ever seen. I thought her as charm- 
ing as a girl could be.” 

“ Oh, you did ! Then why ” 

“ My eyes have been opened since then.” 

“ What did that ? ” 

“ Why don’t you ever pronounce my name ? ” 

77 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“ Never mind your name. What opened your 
eyes ? ” 

“ Why, yours, of course.” 

“ What nonsense ! They’re very nice about it, 
aren’t they ? Do you think we ought to call ? ” 

“ Shall you feel it awkward ? ” 

“ Yes, a little. Sha’n’t you ? Still we must let 
them know we’re here. Will you write to Mrs. 
Ashforth ? ” 

“ I suppose I’d better. After lunch’ll do, won’t 
it?” 

“ Oh, yes. And I’ll write a note to him. I ex- 
pect they won’t be staying here long.” 

“ I hope not. Hallo, it’s a quarter past twelve. 
We must be getting back. Laing’s coming to 
lunch.” 

“ Where are the Deanes ? ” 

“Lady Deane’s gone to Belleville with your father 
to see slums, and Roger’s playing tennis with 
Laing. He said we weren’t to wait lunch. Are 
you hungry, Dolly ? ” 

‘‘Not very. It seems only an hour since break- 
fast.” 

“ How charming of you ! We’ve been walking 
here since ten o’clock.” 

“ Mr. EUerton, will you be serious for a minute? 
I want to say something important. When we 
meet the Ashforths there mustn’t be a word said 
about — about — you know.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ Oh, I couldn’t ! So soon ! Surely you see 
78 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


that. Why, it would be hardly civil to them, 
would it, apart from anything else ? ” 

“ Well, it might look rather casual.” 

“ And I positively couldn’t face John Ashforth. 
You promise, don’t you ? ” 

‘‘ It’s a nuisance, because, you see, Dolly ” 

“ You’re not to get into the habit of saying 
‘ Dolly.’ At least not yet.” 

‘‘ Presently ? ” 

“ If you’re good. Now promise I ” 

“ All right.” 

‘‘ We’re not engaged.” 

“ All right.” 

Nor thinking of it.” 

Rather not ! ” 

“ That’s very nice of you, and when the Ash- 

forths are gone ” 

“ I shall be duly rewarded ? ” 

“ Oh, we’ll see. Do come along. Papa hates 
being kept waiting for his meals, and they must 
have finished their slums long ago.” 

They found Lady Deane and the General waiting 
for them, and the latter proposed an adjournment 
to a famous restaurant near the Opera. Thither 
they repaired, and ordered their lunch. 

“Deane and Laing will find out where we’ve 
gone and follow,” said the General. “We won’t 
wait,” and he resumed his conversation with Lady 
Deane on the events of the morning. 

A moment later the absentees came in ; Sir 
Roger in his usual leisurely fashion, Laing hur- 
79 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


riedly. The latter held in his hand two telegrams, 
or the crumpled debris thereof. He rushed up to 
the table, and panted out, “ Found ’em in the pocket 
of my blazer — must have put ’em there — stupid ass 
— ^never thought of it — put it on for tennis — awfully 
sorry.” 

Wasting no time in reproaches, Dora and Charlie 
grasped their recovered property. 

“ Excuse me ! ” they cried simultaneously, and 
opened the envelopes. A moment later both leant 
back in their chairs, pictures of helpless bewilder- 
ment. 

Dora had read : “ Marriage broken off Coming 
to you 28 th. W^rite directions — European, Paris.” 

Charlie had read : ‘‘ Engagement at end. Aunt 
and I coming to Paris— European, on 28 th. Can 
you meet ? ” 

Lady Deane was writing in her notebook. The 
General, Sir Roger, and Laing were busy with the 
waiter, the menu, and the wine-list. Quick as 
thought the lovers exchanged telegrams. They 
read, and looked at one another. 

‘‘ What does it mean ? ” whispered Dora. 

You never saw anything like the lives those 
ragpickers lead, Dora,” observed Lady Deane, 
looking up from her task. « I was talking to one 
this morning, and he said ” 

“ Maitre d’hotel for me,” broke in Sir Roger. 

‘‘ I haven’t a notion,” murmured Charlie. 

“ Look here, what’s your liquor, Laing ? ” 

“ Anything ; with this thirst on me ” 

80 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 

“ There are ample materials for a revolution more 
astonishing and sanguinary ” 

“ Nonsense, General, you must have something 
to drink.” 

Can they have changed their minds again, 
Dolly?” 

“ They must have, if Mr. Laing is ” 

“ Dry ? I should think I was. So would you 
be, if you’d been playing tennis.” 

Laing cut across the currents of conversation. 

Hope no harm done. Miss Bellairs, about that 
wire ? ” 

“ I — I — I don’t think so.” 

‘‘ Or yours, Charlie ? ” 

Charlie took a hopeful view. 

“Upon my honour, Laing, I’m glad you hid 
it.” 

“ Oh, I see ! ” cried Laing. “ Tip for the wrong 
’un, eh, and too late to put it on now ? ” 

“You’re not far off,” answered Charlie Ellerton. 

“ Roger, is it to-night that the General is going 
to take me to the ? ” 

“Hush! Not before Miss Bellairs, my dear! 
Consider her filial feelings. You and the General 
must make a quiet bolt of it. WeWe only going 
to the Palais Royals 

The arrival of fish brought a momentary pause, 
but the first mouthful was hardly swallowed when 
Arthur Laing started, hunted hastily for his eye- 
glass, and stuck it in his eye. 

“ Yes, it is them,” said he. “ See, Charlie, that 
81 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


table over there ! They’ve got their backs to us, 
but I can see ’em in the mirror.” 

See who ? ” asked Charlie in an irritable tone. 

“ Why, those honeymooners. I say. Lady Deane, 
it’s a queer thing to have a lady’s-maid to breakf — 
Why, by Jove, she’s with them now ! Look ! ” 

His excited interest aroused the attention of 
the whole party, and they looked across the long 
room. 

‘‘ Ashforth’s their name,” concluded Laing. I 
heard the Abigail call him Ashforth ; and the lady 
is ” 

He was interrupted by the clatter of a knife and 
fork falling on a plate. He turned in the direction 
whence the sound came. 

Dora Bellairs leant back in her chair, her hands 
in her lap ; Charlie Ellerton had hidden himself be- 
hind the wine-list. Lady Deane, her husband, and 
the General gazed inquiringly at Dora. 

At the same instant there came a shrill little cry 
from the other end of the room. The mirror had 
served Mary Travers as well as it had Laing. For 
a moment she spoke hastily to her companions; 
then she and J ohn rose, and, with radiant smiles on 
their faces, advanced towards their friends. The 
long expected meeting had come at last. 

Dora sat still in consternation. Charlie, peeping 
out from behind his menu, saw the approach. 

“ Now, in heaven’s name,” he groaned, are they 
married or aren’t they ? ” and, having said this, he 
awaited the worst. 


82 


CHAPTER X 


MR. AND NOT MRS. ASHFORTH 

SuuM cuique: to the Man belongeth courage in 
great things, but in affairs of small moment Woman 
is pre-eminent. Charlie Ellerton was speechless; 
Dora Bellairs, by a supreme effort, rose on shaking 
legs and advanced with outstretched hands to meet 
John Ashforth. 

“ Mr. Ashforth, I declare ! Who would have 
thought of meeting you here ? ” she exclaimed ; and 
she added, in an almost imperceptible mysterious 
whisper, Hush !” 

John at once understood that he was to make no 
reference to the communications which had resulted 
in this happy meeting. He expressed a friendly 
gratification in appropriate words. Dora began to 
breathe again; everything was passing off well. 
Suddenly she glanced from John to Mary. Mary 
stood alone, about three yards from the table, gaz- 
ing at Charlie. Charlie sat as though paralysed. 
He would ruin everything. 

“ Mr. Ellerton,” she called sharply. Charlie 
started up, but before he could reach Dora’s side, 
the latter had turned to Mary and was holding out 
a friendly hand. Mary responded with alacrity. 

“ Miss Bellairs, isn’t it ? We ought to know one 
another. I’m so glad to meet you.” 

83 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


Charlie was by them now. 

“And how do you do, Mr. Ellerton?” went 
on Mary, rivalling Dora in composure. And she 
also added a barely visible and quite inaudible 
“ Hush ! ” 

“ Who are they ? ” asked Deane in a low voice. 

“ Their name’s Ashforth,” answered Laing. 

“ God bless my soul ! ” exclaimed the General. 
“ I remember him now. We made his acquaint- 
ance at Interlaken, but his name had slipped from 
my memory. And that’s his wife ? Fine girl, too. 
I must speak to him.” And, full of kindly intent, 
he bustled off and shook J ohn warmly by the hand. 

“ My dear Ashforth, delighted to meet you again, 
and under such dehghtful conditions, too! Ah, 
well, it only comes once in a lifetime, does it? — 
in your case anyhow, I hope. I see Dora has in- 
troduced herself. You must present me. When 
was it ? ” 

Portions of this address puzzled John consider- 
ably, but he thought it best to do as he was told. 

“ Mary,” he said, “ let me introduce General 
Bellairs — Miss Bellairs’s father — to you. General 
Bell ’’ 

The General interrupted him by addressing Mary 
with much effusion. 

“Delighted to meet you. Ah, you know our 
young friend Ellerton ? Everybody does, it seems 
to me. Come, you must join us. Waiter, two 
more places. Lady Deane, let me introduce Mrs. 
Ashforth. They’re on their ” 

84 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


He paused. An inarticulate sound had proceeded 
from Mary’s lips. 

‘‘ Beg pardon ? ” said the General. 

A pin might have been heard to drop, while 
Mary, recovering herself, said coldly, 

‘‘ I think there’s some mistake. I’m not Mrs. 
Ashforth.” 

“ Gad, it’s the old ’un ! ” burst in a stage whisper 
from Arthur Laing, who seemed determined that 
John Ashforth should have a wife. 

The General looked to his daughter for an ex- 
planation. Dora dared not show the emotion pic- 
tured on her face, and her back was towards the 
party. Charlie Ellerton was staring with a vacant 
look at the lady who was not Mrs. Ashforth. The 
worst had happened. 

John came to the rescue. With an awkward 
laugh he said, 

“ Oh, you — you attribute too much happiness to 
me. This is Miss Travers. I — I — Her aunt. Miss 
Bussey, and she have kindly allowed me to join 
their travelUng party. Miss Bussey is at that 
table ; ” and he pointed to ‘‘ the old ’un.” 

Perhaps it was as well that at this moment the 
pent-up feelings which the situation and, above all, 
the remorseful horror with which Laing was regard- 
ing his fictitious lady’s-maid, overcame Roger 
Deane. He burst into a laugh. After a moment 
the General followed heartily. Laing was the next, 
bettering his examples in his poignant mirth. Sir 
Roger sprang up. 


85 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“Come, Miss Travers,” he said, “sit down. 
Here’s the fellow who gave you your new name. 
Blame him,” and he indicated Laing. Then he 
cried, “ General, we must have Miss Bussey too.” 

The combined party, however, was not, when 
fully constituted by the addition of Miss Bussey, a 
success. Two of its members ate nothing and al- 
ternated between gloomy silence and forced gaiety ; 
who these were may well be guessed. Mary and 
John found it difficult to surmount their embar- 
rassment at the contretemps which had attended 
the introduction, or their perplexity over the cause 
of it. Laing was on thorns lest his distribution of 
parts and stations in life should be disclosed. The 
only bright feature was the congenial feeling 
which appeared at once to unite Miss Bussey and 
Sir Roger Deane. They sat together, and, aided 
by the General’s geniality and Lady Deane’s 
supramundane calm, carried the meal to a con- 
clusion without an actual breakdown, ending up 
with a friendly wrangle over the responsibility for 
the bill. Finally, it was on Sir Roger’s proposal 
that they all agreed to meet at five o’clock and 
take coffee, or what they would, together at a cafe 
by the water in the Bois de Boulogne. With 
this understanding the party broke up. 

Dora and Charlie, lagging behind, found them- 
selves alone. They hardly dared to look at one 
another, lest their composure should fail. 

“ They’re not married,” said Charlie. 

“ No.” 


86 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 

“ They’ve broken it off 1 ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Because of us ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ While we ” 

Yes.” 

“ Well, in all my life, I never ” 

“ Oh, do be quiet.” 

“ What an infernal ass that fellow Laing ” 

‘‘ Do you think they saw anything? ” 

“No. I half wish they had.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Ellerton, what shall we do ? They’re 
still in love with us ! ” 

“ Rather ! They’ve been waiting for us.” 

Dora entered the hotel gates and sank into a 
chair in the court-yard. 

“Well? ’’she asked helplessly ; but Charlie had 
no suggestion to offer. 

“ How could they ? ” she broke out indignantly. 
“ How could they break off their marriage at the 
last moment like that? They — they were as good 
as married. It’s really hardly — People should 
know their own minds.” 

She caught sight of a rueful smile on Charlie’s 
face. 

“ Oh, I know; but it’s different,” she added im- 
patiently. One expects it of you; but I didn’t 
expect it of John Ashforth.” 

“ And of yourself ? ” he asked softly. 

“It’s all your fault, you wicked boy,” she an- 
swered. 


87 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


Charlie sighed heavily. 

‘‘We must break it to them,” said he. “ Mary 
wiU understand ; she has such delicacy of feeling 
that ” 

“You’re always praising that girl. I believe 
you’re in love with her still.” 

“Well, you as good as told me I wasn’t fit to 
black Ashforth’s boots.” 

“ Anyhow he wouldn’t have — have — have tried 
to make a girl care for him when he knew she 
cared for somebody else.” 

“ Hang it, it seems to me Ashforth isn’t exactly 
immaculate. Why, in Switzerland ” 

“ Never mind Switzerland, Mr. EUerton, please.” 

A silence ensued. Then Charlie remarked, with 
a reproachful glance at Dora’s averted face, 

“ And this is the sequel to Avignon ! I shouldn’t 
have thought a girl could change so in forty-eight 
hours.” 

Dora said nothing. She held her head very high 
in the air, and looked straight in front of her. 

“ When you gave me that kiss — ” resumed 
Charlie. 

Now this form of expression was undoubtedly 
ambiguous ; to give a kiss may mean : 1. What it 
literally says — to bestow a kiss. 2. To offer one’s 
self to be kissed. 3. To accept willingly a prof- 
fered kiss ; and, without much straining of words, 
4. Merely to refrain from angry expostulation and 
a rupture of acquaintance when one is kissed — this 
last partaking rather of the nature of the ratifica- 
88 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


tion of an unauthorised act, and being, in fact, the 
measure of Dora’s criminality. But the other 
shades of meaning caught her attention. 

“ You know it’s untrue ; I never did,” she cried 
angrily. “ I told you at the time that no gentle- 
man would have done it.” 

‘‘ Oh, you mean Ashforth, I suppose ? It’s 
always Ashforth.” 

“ Well, he wouldn’t.” 

“And some girls I know wouldn’t forgive a 
man on Monday and round on him on Wednes- 
day.” 

“ Oh, you needn’t trouble to mention names. I 
know the paragon you’re thinking ofl ” 

They were now at the hotel. 

“ Going in ? ” asked Charlie. 

“ Yes.” 

“ I suppose we shall go to the Bois together ? ” 

“ I shall ask papa or Sir Boger to take me.” 

“ Then I’ll go with Lady Deane.” 

“ I don’t mind who you go with, Mr. Ellerton.” 

“ I’ll take care that you’re annoyed as little as 
possible by my presence.” 

“ It doesn’t annoy me.” 

“ Doesn’t it, D ? ” 

“I don’t notice it one way or the other.” 

“ Oh.” 

“ Good-bye for the present, Mr. Ellerton.” 

“ Good-bye, Miss Bellairs ; but I ought to thank 
you.” 

“ What for?” 

16 


89 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“ For making it easy to me to do what’s right ; ” 
and Charlie turned on his heel and made rapidly 
for the nearest cc^e, where he ordered an absinthe, 

Dora went wearily up to her bedroom, and, sit- 
ting down, reviewed the recent conversation. She 
could not make out how, or why, or where they 
had begun to quarrel. Yet they had certainly not 
only begun but made very fair progress, consider- 
ing the time at their disposal. It had all been 
Charlie’s fault. He must be fond of that girl after 
all ; if so, it was not likely that she would let him 
see that she minded. Let him go to Mary Travers, 
if — if he liked that sort of prim creature. She, 
Dora Bellairs, would not interfere. She would 
have no difficulty in finding some one who did 
care for her. Poor J ohn ! How happy he looked 
when he saw her! It was quite touching. He 
really looked almost — almost — To her sudden 
annoyance and alarm she found herself finishing 
the sentence thus, “almost as Charlie did at 
Avignon.” 

“ Oh, he’s worth a thousand of Charlie! ” she ex- 
claimed impatiently. 

At half-past four Sir Roger Deane was waiting 
in the hall. Presently Dora appeared. 

“ Where are the others ? ” she asked. 

“ Charlie’s having a drink. Your father and 
Maud aren’t coming. They’re going to rest.” 

“ Oh, well, we might start.” 

“ Excuse me. Miss Dora, there’s some powder on 
your nose.” 


90 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


“ Oh, is there ? Thanks.” 

“ What have you been powdering for ? ” 

“ Really, Sir Roger ! Besides, the sun has 
ruined my complexion.” 

‘‘ Oh, the sun ? ” 

“Yes. Don’t be horrid. Do let’s start.” 

“ But Charlie ” 

“ I hate riding three in a cab.” 

“ Oh, and I like riding alone in one ; so ” 

‘‘No, no. You must come with me. Mr. Eller- 
ton can follow us. He’s always drinking, isn’t he ? 
I dislike it so.” 

Sir Roger, with a wink at an unresponsive plas- 
ter bust of M. le President^ followed her to the 
door. They had just got into their little victoria 
when Charlie appeared, cigarette in hand. 

“Charlie,” observed Deane, “Miss Bellairs 
thinks you’ll be more comfortable by yourself than 
perched on this front seat.” 

“Especially as you’re smoking,” added Dora. 

Allez, cocker i!' 

Charlie hailed another vehicle and got in. As 
he did so he remarked between his teeth, “ I’m 
d d if I stand it.” 


91 


CHAPTER XI 


A DYNAMITE OUTRAGE 

On one side of the lake Dora and John walked to- 
gether, on the other Mary and Charlie. Miss Bus- 
sey and Roger Deane sat in the garden of the cafe. 
The scene round them was gay. Carriages con- 
stantly drove up, discharging daintily attired ladies 
and their cavahers. There was a constant stream 
of bicycles, some of them steered by fair riders in 
neat bloomer- suits; the road-waterers spread a 
grateful coolness in their ambit, for the afternoon 
was hot for the time of year, and the dust had an 
almost autumnal volume. Miss Bussey had been 
talking for nearly ten minutes on end, and now she 
stopped with an exhausted air, and sipped her cof- 
fee. Deane lit another cigar and sat silently look- 
ing on at the life that passed and repassed before 
him. 

‘‘ It’s a curious story,” he observed at last. 

‘‘Very; but I suppose it’s all ended happily now. 
Look at them. Sir Roger.” 

“ Oh, I see them.” 

“ Their troubles are over at last, poor children ; 
and really I think they’ve all behaved very well. 
And yet ” 

“ Yes ? ” 

“ I should have thought Mary and Mr. Ashforth 

92 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


so suited to one another. Well, well, the heart’s 
an unaccountable thing — to an old spinster, any- 
how.” 

“ You’re right. Miss Bussey. Take my wife and 
me. You wouldn’t have thought we should have 
hit it off, would you ? First year I knew her I 
hardly dared to speak to her — used to mug up 
Browning and — (Sir Roger here referred to an em- 
inent living writer), and chaps like that, before I 
went to see her, you know. No use ! I bored her 
to death. At last I chucked it up.” 

‘‘ Well?” 

‘‘ And I went one day and talked about the 
Grand National for half an hour by the clock. 
Well, she asked me to come again next day, and I 
went, and told her all about the last burlesque and 
— and so on, you know. And then I asked her to 
marry me.” 

“ And she said ‘ Yes ’ ? ” 

“ Not directly. She said there was an impassable 
gulf between us — an utter want of sympathy in our 
tastes and an irreconcilable difference of intellectual 
outlook.” 

“ Dear me ! Didn’t that discourage you ? ” 

“ I said I didn’t care a dash ; she was the only 
girl I ever cared for (all right. Miss Bussey, don’t 
laugh), and I’d have any outlook she liked. I said 
I knew I was an ass, but I thought I knew a pretty 
girl when I saw one, and I’d go away if she’d show 
me a prettier one.” 

“ Well?” 


93 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“ Well, she didn’t.” 

Miss Bussey laughed a little. 

“ Of course,” resumed Sir Roger, “ I’ve got 
money, you know, and all that, and perhaps ” 

“ Sir Roger ! What a thing to say of your 
wife ! ” 

“Well, with another girl — but, hang it, I don’t 
believe Maud would. Still, you see, it’s so dashed 
queer that sometimes ” 

“I’m sure she’s very fond of you,” said Miss Bus- 
sey, rather surprised at the nature of the confidence 
which she was receiving. 

“ I expect it’s all right,” resumed Deane, more 
cheerfully ; “ and that brings us back to where we 
started, doesn’t it ? ” 

“And we started in bewilderment.” 

“You’re puzzled that Dora Bellairs and Ash- 
forth should pair off together, and ? ” 

“ Well, the other combination would seem more 
natural, wouldn’t it? Doesn’t it surprise you a 
little ? ” 

“ I’m never surprised at anything till I know it’s 
true,” said Sir Roger. 

“ What, you ? ” 

They were interrupted by the return of their 
friends, and a move was made. Three vehicles 
were necessary to take them back, for the twos 
could, obviously, neither be separated from one an- 
other nor united with anybody else, and in proces- 
sion, Miss Bussey and Deane leading, they filed 
along the avenues back to the Arc de Triomphe. 

94 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


They had hardly passed the open Place when 
their progress was suddenly arrested. A crowd 
spread almost across the broad road, and sergents- 
de-ville imperiously commanded a halt. There was 
a babble of tongues, great excitement, and a thou- 
sand eager fingers pointing at a house. The door- 
way was in ruins, and workmen were busy shoring 
it up with beams. In the middle of the crowd 
there was an open circle, surrounded hy gensdarmes, 
and kept clear of people. In the middle of it lay a 
thing like a rather tall slim watering-pot, minus the 
handle. The crowd, standing on tiptoe and peep- 
ing over the shoulders of their guardians, shook 
their fists at this harmless-looking article and apos- 
trophised it with a wonderful wealth of passionate 
invectives. 

“ What in the world’s the matter ? ” cried Miss 
Bussey, who was nervous in a crowd. 

‘‘ Revolution, I suppose,” responded Deane 
calmly; and, turning to his nearest neighbour, he 
continued in the first French that came to him, 
“ Une autre revolution, n’est-ce-pas, monsieur ? ” 

The man stared, but a woman near him burst 
into a voluble explanation, from the folds of which 
unlearned English ears disentangled, at the third 
reiteration, the ominous word, “ Dynamite ; ” and 
she pointed to the watering-pot. 

“ Oh, it’ll go off! ” shrieked Miss Bussey. 

‘‘ It’s gone off,” said Sir Roger. “ W e’re too 
late; ” and there was a touch of disappointment in 
his voice, as he turned and shouted to the others, 
95 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 

‘‘ Keep your seats ! It’s all over. Only an ex- 
plosion. ” 

“ Only ! ” shuddered Miss Bussey. “ It’s a mercy 
we weren’t killed.” 

It appeared that this mercy had not stopped at 
Miss Bussey and her friends. Nobody had been 
killed — not even the magistrate on the third floor 
for whose discipline and reformation the occurrence 
had been arranged; and presently the carriages 
were allowed to proceed. 

Lady Deane’s grief at having missed so interest- 
ing an occasion was very poignant. 

“ No, Roger,” said she, ‘‘it is not a mere craving 
for horrors, or a morbid love of excitement ; I wish 
I had been there to observe the crowd, because it’s 
just at such moments that people reveal their 
true selves. The veil is lifted— the veil of hy- 
pocrisy and convention — and you see the naked 
soul.” 

“ You could hear it too, Maud,” observed Sir 
Roger. “ Fine chance of improving your French 
vocabulary. Still, I dare say you’re right.” 

“ I’m sure I am.” 

Deane looked at his wife meditatively. 

“You think,” he asked, “that being in danger 
might make people ” 

“ Reveal their inmost natures and feelings ? I’m 
sure of it.” 

“ Gad! Then we might try.” 

“ What do you mean, Roger ? ” 

“Nothing. You’re going out with the General 

96 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


to-night ? Very well, I shall take a turn on my 
own hook.” 

As he strolled towards the smoking-room, he met 
Charlie Ellerton. 

“ Well, old fellow, had a pleasant afternoon ? ” 

“ Glorious ! ” answered Charlie in a husky voice. 

“ Are we to congratulate you ? ” 

“I — I — well, it’s not absolutely settled yet, 
Deane, but — soon, I hope.” 

‘‘ That’s right. Miss Bussey told me the whole 
story, and I think you’re precious lucky to get 
such a girl.” 

“ Yes, aren’t I ? ” 

“ You don’t look over and above radiant.” 

“Do you want me to go grinning about the 
hotel like an infernal hyena ? ” 

“ I think a chastened joy would be appropriate.” 

“ Don’t be an ass, Deane. 1 suppose you think 
you’re funny ? ” 

Sir Roger walked on, with a smile on his lips. 
As he passed the reading-room Dora Bellairs came 
out. 

“ Well, Miss Dora, enjoyed your afternoon? ” 

“ Oh, awfully — except that dreadful explosion.” 

“You must excuse a friend, you know. I’m 
awfully glad it’s all come right in the end.” 

“ You — you’re very kind. Sir Roger. It’s — it’s — 
there’s nothing quite settled yet.” 

“Oh, of course not, but still — ! Well, I heard 
all about it, and I think he’s worthy of you. I 
can’t say more. He seems a capital fellow.” 

97 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


‘‘ Yes, isn’t he ? I ” 

“ Yes ? ” 

“Oh, I’m very, very, very happy;” and, after 
making this declaration in a shaky voice, she fairly 
ran away down the passage. Deane watched her 
as she went. 

“Maud’s right,” said he. “She always is. There’s 
nothing for it but dynamite. I wonder where it’s 
to be got? ” 

General Bellairs clapped him on the shoulders. 

“ Inclined for a turn, Deane ? I’m going to see 
an old servant of mine — Painter’s his name. He 
married my poor wife’s French maid, and set up as 
a restaurant-keeper in the Palais Royal. I always 
look him up when I come to Paris.” 

“ I’m your man,” answered Deane; and they set 
out for Mr. Painter’s establishment. It proved to 
be a neat little place, neither of the very cheap nor 
of the very sumptuous class, and the General was 
soon promising to bring the whole party to dejeu- 
ner there. Painter was profuse in thanks, and 
called madame to thank the General. The Gen- 
eral at once entered into conversation with the 
trim little woman. 

“Nice place yours. Painter,” observed Deane. 

“Pleased to hear you say so. Sir Roger.” 

“ Very nice. Ah— er— heard of the explosion ? ” 

“ Yes, Sir Roger. Abominable thing, sir. These 
Socialists ” 

“ Quite so. Never had one here, I suppose? ” 

“ N o, sir. W e’re pretty well looked after in here. ” 
98 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


“ Like one ? ” asked Deane. 

“ Beg pardon, sir. Ha, ha. No, sir.” 

“ Because I want one.” 

“ You — beg pardon, sir ? ” 

“Look here. Painter. I’ll drop in here after 
dinner for some coffee. I want to talk to you. 
See ? Not a word to the General.” 

“ Glad to see you. Sir Roger ; but ” 

“ All right. I’ll put you up to it. Here they 
come. Present me to madame.” 

They went away, having arranged with the 
Painters for luncheon and a private room on the 
next day but one. 

“Lunch for eight,” said Deane. “At least. 
General, I thought we might ask our friends from 
the European.” 

“ Yes — and young Laing.” 

“ Oh, I forgot him. Yes, Laing, of course. For 
nine — neuf, you know, please, madame.” 

“ That’s all right,” said the General. “ I’m glad 
to do him a turn.” 

“ Yes, that’s all right,” assented Sir Roger, with 
the slightest possible chuckle. “ W e shall have a 
jolly lunch, eh. General? ” 


99 


CHAPTER XII 


ANOTHER ! 

“I SHALL never, never forget your generosity, 
John.” 

“No, Mary. It was your honesty and courage 
that did it.” 

“I told Mr. Ellerton the whole story, and he 
seemed positively astonished.” 

“ And Miss Bellairs admitted that when she 
wrote she considered such a thing utterly impos- 
sible. She’s changed a little, Mary. She’s not so 
cheerful and light-hearted as she used to be.” 

“ Think what she’s gone through. I’ve noticed 
just the same in Mr. Ellerton, but ” 

“ You hope to restore him soon ? ” 

“ Oh, well, I expect Miss Bellairs — what a pretty 
girl she is, John — will soon revive too, now she is 
with you again. John, have you observed any- 
thing peculiar in Aunt Sarah’s manner ? ” 

“To tell you the truth, I fancied she was rather 
short with me once or twice at dinner.” 

“I believe she is — isn’t pleased at — at what’s 
happened. She hasn’t taken much to Mr. Eller- 
ton, and you know she liked you so much, that I 
think she still wants you as one of the family.” 

John laughed; then he leant forward, and said 
in a low voice : 

“ Have you settled anything about dates ? ” 

100 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


“ No. Mr. Ellerton — well, he didn’t introduce 
the subject; so, of course, I didn’t. Have you ?” 

“ No, we haven’t. I made some suggestion of 
the kind, but Miss Bellairs didn’t fall in with it. 
She won’t even let me ask her father’s consent just 
yet.” 

Mr. Ellerton proposes not to announce our — 
anything — for a few days.” 

‘‘Well,” said John, “I shall insist on an an- 
nouncement very shortly, and you ought to do the 
same, Mary. We know the evils — ” He checked 
himself; but Mary was not embarrassed. 

“ Of secret engagements ? ” she said calmly. 
“ We do indeed.” 

“ Besides, it’s a bore. I couldn’t go with Miss 
Bellairs to the theatre to-night, because she said it 
would look too marked.” 

“ Yes, and Mr. Ellerton said that if he dined 
here he might as well announce our engagement 
from the statue of Strasburg.” 

John frowned ; and Mary, perceiving the bent of 
his thoughts, ventured to say, though with a timid 
air unusual to her, 

“ I think they’re the least little bit inconsiderate, 
don’t you, John — after all we have done for them? ” 

“ Well, I don’t mind admitting that I do feel 
that. I do not consider that Miss Bellairs quite 
appreciates the effort I have made.” 

Mary sighed. 

“We mustn’t expect too much of them, must 
we ? ” she asked. 


101 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“I suppose not,” John conceded; but he still 
frowned. 

When we consider how simple the elements of 
perfect happiness appear to be, regarded in the ab- 
stract, it becomes surprising to think how difficult 
it is to attain them in the concrete. A kind ma- 
gician may grant us all we ask, may transport us 
whither we would go, dower us with all we lack, 
bring to us one desired companion after another ; 
but something is wrong. We have a toothache, 
or in spite of our rich curtains there’s a draught, or 
the loved one haps not to be at the moment con- 
genial : and we pitifully pray the wizard to wave 
his wand again. Would any magician wave his for 
these four troublesome folk ? It must be admitted 
that they hardly deserved it. 

Nevertheless a magician was at work, and, with 
the expiration of the next night, his train was laid. 
At eleven o’clock in the forenoon of Friday Roger 
Deane had a final interview with the still hesitating 
Painter. 

“But if the police should come. Sir Roger?” 
urged the fearful man. 

“ Why, you’ll look a fool, that’s all. Isn’t the 
figure high enough ? ” 

“ Most liberal. Sir Roger; but — but it will alarm 
my wife.” 

“ If you come to that, it’ll alarm my wife.” 

“Very true. Sir Roger.” Painter seemed to 
derive some comfort from this indirect community 
of feeling with the aristocracy. 

102 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


“ It’ll alarm everybody, I hope. That’s what it’s 
for. Now mind — 2.30 sharp — and when the 
coffee’s been in ten minutes. Not before 1 I must 
have time for coffee.” 

“Very good, Sir Roger.” 

“ Is the ladder ready ? ” 

“ Yes, Sir Roger.” 

“ And the what’s-its-name ? ” 

“ Quite ready. Sir Roger.” 

“ Let’s see it.” 

It was inspected and pronounced satisfactory. 
Then Roger Deane set out to return to his hotel, 
murmuring contentedly, 

“ If that don’t make up their minds for ’em, I 
don’t know what will.” 

Then he paused suddenly. 

“ Gad ! Will the women have hysterics ? ” he 
asked ; but in a moment he added, reassuring him- 
self, “Maud never has, and, hang it, we must 
chance the rest.” 

Arrived at home he found Arthur Laing kicking 
his heels in the smoking-room. 

“ Lunching with you to-day, ain’t I, somewhere 
in the Palais Royal ? ” asked the visitor. 

“Yes; some place the General’s found out. 
Look here, Laing, are you a nervous man ? ” 

“ Nervous ! What do you take me for ? ” 

“ Lose your head in moments of excitement ? ” 

“ I never have ’em.” 

“ Oh, well, hang you ! I say, Laing, you’re 
not a fool. Just look here. Anything I say — 
103 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


anything, mind — at lunch to-day, you’re not to 
contradict. You’re to back me up.” 

“ Right you are, old chap.” 

“ And the more infernal nonsense it sounds, the 
more you’re to take your oath about it.” 

I’m there.” 

“And, finally, you’re on no account to lay a 
finger either on Miss Travers or on Dora Bel- 
lairs.” 

“ Hallo ! I’m not in the habit of beating women 
at any time, let alone at a lunch-party.” 

“ I mean what I say ; you’re not to touch either 
of them. If you do you’ll spoil it. You’re to go 
for Miss Bussey.” 

“ She’s not done me any harm.” 

“Never mind. As soon as the row begins, and 
I say, ‘ Save the ladies ! ’ you collar Miss Bussey. 
See?” 

“ Oh, I see. Seems to me we’re going to have a 
lively lunch. Am I to carry the old lady ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, by Jove! How’s my biceps? Just feel, 
will you ? ” 

Deane felt, and gravely pronounced the muscle to 
be equal to its task. Laing was much gratified, 
and awaited the unknown future with philosophic 
patience. 

Sir Roger had predicted “ a jolly lunch,” but, in 
its early stages, the entertainment hardly earned 
this description. Something was wrong some- 
where. Dora started by refusing, very pointedly, 
104 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


to sit near Charlie Ellerton; and yet, when she 
found herself between Ashforth and Laing, she 
was absent, silent, and melancholy. Charlie, on 
the other hand, painfully practised a laboured 
attentiveness to Mary Travers which contrasted ill 
with his usual spontaneous and gay courtesy. Miss 
Bussey wore an air of puzzled gravity, and Laing 
kept looking at her with a calculating eye. He 
seemed to be seeking the best grip. Lady Deane 
and the General, engrossed in a tete-a-tete discus- 
sion, did little to promote the hilarity of the table, 
and it was left to Deane to maintain the flow of 
conversation as he best could. Apparently he 
found the task a heavy one, for, before long, he 
took a newspaper out of his pocket, and, a propos 
to one of his own remarks, began to read a highly 
decorated account of the fearful injuries under 
which the last victim of the last diabolical explosion 
had been in danger of succumbing. Sir Roger 
read his gruesome narrative with much emphasis, 
and as he laid dowm the paper he observed, 

“ Well, I hope I’m not more of a coward than 
most men, but in face of dynamite— ugh ! ” and he 
shuddered realistically. 

I should make for the door,” said Laing. 

‘‘Yes; but in this case the bomb was at the 
door ! ” 

“Then,” said Laing, “I should exit by the 
window.” 

“ But this poor man,” remarked Mary Travers, 
“ stayed to rescue the woman he loved ; and her 
17 105 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


eyes rested for an instant in confident affection on 
Charlie Ellerton. 

“We should all do as much, I trust,” said John, 
glancing at Dora Bellairs. 

“ I’m sure I hope you won’t have to,” said Dora, 
rather ungraciously. 

“ Think what a convincing test of affection it 
would be, ” suggested Deane persuasively. “ After 
that you could never doubt that the man loved 
you.” 

“ My good Sir Roger,” observed Miss Bussey, 
“ it would be common humanity.” 

“Suppose there were two girls,” said Laing, 
“ and you couldn’t take ’em both ! ” 

Deane hastily interposed. 

“ Haven t we had enough of this dreary sub- 
ject? ” he asked, and he frowned slightly at Laing. 

“Isn’t it about time for coffee?” the General 
suggested. 

Deane looked at his watch. 

W^hat does the time matter, Deane, if we’re 
ready ? ” 

“ Not a bit. 2.20. That’s all right,” and he 
rang the bell. 

Painter came in with the coffee ; the little man 
looked rather pale and nervous, but succeeded in 
serving the company without upsetting the cups. 
He came to Deane last. 

“Is everything ready?” whispered that gentle- 
man; and receiving a trembling “Yes, sir,” he 
added, “ In ten minutes.” 

106 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


“ This/’ he observed out loud, “ has been a pleas- 
ant gathering — a pleasant end to our outing.” 

“ What ? You’re going ? ” asked Miss Bussey. 

‘‘ Yes ; my wife and I cross to England to- 
morrow.” 

“ I shall go the next day,” announced the Gen- 
eral, “ if Dora is ready.” 

John threw a glance toward Dora, but she was 
busy drinking her coffee. 

“ Well,” said Deane, “ I hope we may soon meet 
again, under equally delightful circumstances, in 
London. At any rate,” he added, with a laugh, 
“ there we shall be safe from ” 

Crash ! A loud noise came from the door, as 
if of some metallic substance thrown against the 
panels. 

“ Hallo ! ” said Laing . 

‘‘ Oh, somebody tumbled downstairs,” said Deane 
reassuringly. “ Don’t move. Miss Bussey.” 

‘‘ Oh, but. Sir Roger, what is it ? What do you 
think? It didn’t sound at all like what you 
say.” 

The General laughed. 

“ Come, Miss Bussey, I don’t suppose it’s ” 

As he spoke the form of Painter appeared at the 
open window. He was breathless, and shrieked 
hastily, 

‘‘ Dynamite, d5mamite ! Save yourselves ! It’ll 
be off in a minute.” 

‘‘Then I shall be off in half a minute,” said 
Laing. 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


There was a rush to the door; and Laing, re- 
membering his instructions, joined hastily in it. 

“No, no. The bomb’s there!” cried Painter 
excitedly. 

They stood still in horror for ten seconds. 

“To the window, to the window, for your lives ! 
Save the ladies ! ” cried Sir Roger Deane. 


108 


CHAPTER XIII 


FAITHFUL TO DEATH 

The ladies looked at one another. Even in that 
awful moment, the becoming, the seemly, the dig- 
nified had its claims. The window was narrow; 
the ladder — Mary Travers had gone to look at it — 
was steep ; a little, curious, excited crowd was 
gathering below. Deane saw their hesitation. 
He rushed to the door and cautiously opened it. 
The thing was there ! Across the very entrance — 
that villainous oblong case 1 And from below came 
a shriek — it was madame’s voice — and a cry of 
“ Quick ! quick ! ” 

“ This,” said the General firmly (he had been 
through the Mutiny), “ is not a time for punctilio. 
Excuse me,” and he lifted Lady Deane in his stal- 
wart arms and bore her towards the window. 

With a distant reminiscence of the ball-room, 
Arthur Laing approached Miss Bussey, murmur- 
ing, “ May I have the — ” and with a mighty ef- 
fort swung the good lady from the ground. She 
clutched his cravat wildly, crying, “ Save me ! ” 

Mary Travers was calmness itself. With quiet 
mien and unfaltering voice, she laid her hand on 
Charlie’s arm and murmured, 

“ I am ready, Charlie.” 

At the same moment John Ashforth, the light 
109 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


of heroism in his eye, whispered to Dora, “ You 
must trust yourself implieitly to me.” 

“ Quick, quick ! ” cried Deane, “ or it’s all up 
with you. Quick, Ashforth ! Quick, Charlie ; 
quick, man ! ” 

There was one more pause. Mary’s hand pressed 
a little harder. John’s arm was advancing towards 
Dora’s waist. Sir Roger looked on with apparent 
impatience. 

‘‘ Are you never going? ” he called. ‘‘ Must 
I ” 

Suddenly a loud cry rang out. It came from 
Miss Bellairs. 

“ Oh, Charlie, save me, save me ! ” she cried, and 
then and there flung herself into his arms. 

‘‘ My darling ! ” he whispered loudly, and catch- 
ing her up made for the window. As they disap- 
peared through it, Deane softly and swiftly opened 
the door and disappeared in his turn. Mary and 
John were left alone. Then Mary’s composure 
gave way. Sinking into a chair, she cried, 

“ And I am left ! Nobody cares for me. What 
shall I do ? ” 

In an instant John’s strong arm was round her. 
“ I care for you ! ” he cried, and raising her almost 
senseless form, he rushed to the window. The lad- 
der was gone 1 

“ Gone ! ” he shrieked. ‘‘ Where is it ? ” 

There was no answer. The little crowd had 
gone too. 

“We are lost,” he said. 

110 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


Mary opened her eyes. 

“ Lost ! ” she echoed. 

“ Lost ! Abandoned — by those who loved — ah, 
no, no, Mary ! In the hour of danger — then we 
see the truth ! ” 

Mary’s arms clasped him closer. 

“Ah, John, John,” she said, “we must die to- 
gether, dear.” 

John stooped and kissed her. 

Suddenly the door was opened and Deane 
entered. He wore a comically apologetic look, and 
carried an oblong metal vessel in his right hand. 

“Excuse me,” he said. “There’s been — er — 
slight but very natural mistake. It wasn’t — er — 
exactly dynamite — it’s — er — a preserved-peach tin. 
That fool Painter ” 

“ Then we’re safe ? ” cried Mary. 

“ Yes, thank Heaven,” answered Deane fervently. 

“ Oh, John ! ” she cried. 

Sir Roger, with a smile, retired and closed the 
door after him. 

Downstairs Lady Deane and Miss Bussey, for- 
getful of their sufferings, were restoring Madame 
Painter to her senses; Painter was uncorking a 
bottle of champagne for Arthur Laing ; Sir Roger 
Deane was talking in a low voice and persuasive 
tones to an imposing representative of the police. 
What passed between them is unknown ; possibly 
only words, possibly something else; at any rate, 
after a time, Deane smiled, the great man smiled 
responsively, saluted, and disappeared, murmuring 
111 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


something about Anglais , milords^ and dr dies. The 
precise purport of his reflections could not be dis- 
tinctly understood by those in the house, for civility 
made him inarticulate, but when he was safely out- 
side he looked at a piece of crisp paper in his hand ; 
then, with his thumb pointing over his shoulder, he 
gave an immense shrug and exclaimed, 

Mais voila un fou! ” and to this day he consid- 
ers Roger Deane the very type of a maniac. 

Mary and John descended. As soon as they 
appeared Dora jumped up from her seat and ran 
towards John, crying, 

“ Oh, Mr. Ashforth ! ” 

While Charlie, advancing more timidly to Mary, 
murmured, “ Forgive me, but ” 

Mary with a slight bow, John with a lift of his 
hat, both without a halt or a word, passed through 
the room, arm-in-arm, and vanished from Mr. 
Painter s establishment. 

Sir Roger had seized on Laing’s champagne and 
was pouring it out. He stopped now, and looked 
at Dora. A sudden gleam of intelligence glanced 
from her eyes. Rushing up to him, she whispered, 
“ You did it all ? It was all a hoax ? ” 

He nodded. 

“ And why ? ” 

“ Ask Charlie Ellerton,” he answered. 

‘‘ Oh, but Mr. Ashforth and Mary Travers are so 
angry ! ” 

“ With one another ? ” 

“No, with us.” 


112 


THE WHEEL OF LOVE 


Sir Roger looked her mereilessly full in the face, 
regardless of her blushes. 

“That,” he observed with emphasis, “is exactly 
what you wanted. Miss Bellairs.” 

Then he turned to the company, holding a full 
glass in his hand. “ Ladies and gentlemen,” said 
he, “some of us have had a narrow escape. 
Whether we shall be glad of it or sorry hereafter, I 
don’t know — do you, Charlie ? But here’s a health 
to ” 

But Dora, glancing apprehensively at the Gene- 
ral, whispered, “ Not yet ! ” 

“ To Dynamite ! ” said Sir Roger Deane. 

POSTSCRIPT 

It should be added that a fuller, more graphic, and 
more sensational account of the outrage in the 
Palais Royal than this pen has been capable of in- 
scribing will appear, together with much other 
curious and enlightening matter, in Lady Deane’s 
next work. The author also takes occasion in that 
work — and there is little doubt that the subject was 
suggested by the experiences of some of her friends 
— to discuss the nature, quality, and duration of 
the Passion of Love. She concludes — if it be per- 
missible thus far to anticipate the publication of her 
book — ^that all True Love is absolutely permanent 
and indestructible, untried by circumstance and 
untouched by time ; and this opinion is, she says, 
endorsed by every woman who has ever been in 
113 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


love. Thus fortified, the conclusion seems beyond 
cavil. If, therefore, any incidents here recorded 
appear to conflict with it, we must imitate the dis- 
cretion of Plato and say, either these persons were 
not Sons of the Gods — ^that is. True Lovers — or they 
did not do such things. Unfortunately, however. 
Lady Deane s proof-sheets were accessible too late 
to allow of the title of this story being changed. 
So it must stand — “The Wheel of Love;” but if 
any lady (men are worse than useless) will save the 
author’s credit by proving that wheels do not go 
round, he will be very much obliged — and will offer 
her every facility. 


114 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


CHAPTER I 
A FIRM BELIEVER 

“I SEE Mr. Vansittart Merceron’s at the Court 
again, mamma.” 

“Yes, dear. Lady Merceron told me he was 
coming. She wanted to consult him about 
Charlie.” 

“ She’s always consulting him about Charlie, 
and it never makes any difference.” 

Mrs. Bushell looked up from her needlework; 
her hands were full with needle and stuff, and a 
couple of pins protruded from her lips. She 
glanced at her daughter, who stood by the win- 
dow in the bright blaze of a brilliant sunset, list- 
lessly hitting the blind-cord and its tassel to and 
fro. 

“The poor boy’s very young still,” mumbled 
Mrs. Bushell through her pins. 

“ He’s twenty-five last month,” returned Milli- 
cent. “I know, because there’s exactly three 
years between him and me.” 

The sinking rays defined Miss Bushell’s form 
with wonderful clearness. She was very tall, and 
the severe, well-cut cloth gown she wore set off 
115 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


the stately lines of her figure. She had a great 
quantity of fair hair and a handsome face, spoilt 
somewhat by a slightly excessive breadth across 
the cheeks; as her height demanded or excused, 
her hands and feet were not small, though well 
shaped. Would Time have arrested his march 
for ever, there would have been small fault to find 
with Nature’s gifts to Miss Bushell ; but, as her 
mother said, MiUie was just what she had been at 
twenty-one ; and Mrs. Bushell was now extremely 
stout. Millie escaped the inference by discrediting 
her mother’s recollection. 

The young lady wore her hat, and presently she 
turned away from the window, remarking, 

‘‘ I think I shall go for a stroll. I’ve had no 
exercise to-day.” 

Either inclination, or perhaps that threatening 
possibility from which she strove to avert her eyes, 
made Millie a devotee of active pursuits. She 
hunted, she rode, she played lawn-tennis, and, 
when at the seaside, golf; when all failed, she 
walked resolutely four or five miles on the high 
road, swinging along at a healthy pace, and never 
pausing save to counsel an old woman or rebuke a 
truant urchin. On such occasions her manner (for 
we may not suppose that her physique aided the 
impression) suggested the benevolent yet stern 
policeman, and the vicar acknowledged in her an 
invaluable assistant. By a strange coincidence she 
seemed to suit the house she lived in — one of those 
large white square dwellings, devoid of ornament, 
116 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


yet possessing every substantial merit, and attain- 
ing, by virtue of their dimensions and simplicity, 
an effect of handsomeness denied to many more 
tricked-out buildings. The house satisfied ; so did 
Millie, unless the judge were very critical. 

I shall just walk round by the Pool and back,” 
she added as she opened the door. 

“ My dear, it’s four miles ! ” 

“ Well, it’s only a little after six, and we don’t 
dine till eight.” 

Encountering no further opposition than a sigh 
of admiration — ^three hundred yards was the limit 
of pleasure in a walk to her mother — Millie Bushell 
started on her way, dangling a neat ebony stick in 
her hand, and setting her feet down with a firm, 
decisive tread. It did not take her long to cover 
the two miles between her and her destination. 
Leaving the road, she entered the grounds of the 
Court and, following a little path which ran steeply 
down hill, she found herself by the willows and 
reeds fringing the edge of the Pool. Opposite to 
her, on the higher bank, some seven or eight feet 
above the water, rose the temple, a small classical 
erection, used now, when at all, as a summer- 
house, but built to commemorate the sad fate of 
Agatha Merceron. The sun had just sunk, and 
the Pool looked chill and gloomy ; the deep water 
under the temple was black and still. Millie’s 
robust mind was not prone to superstition, yet she 
was rather relieved to think that, with the sun only 
just gone, there was a clear hour before Agatha Mer- 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


ceron would come out of the temple, slowly and 
fearfully descend the shallow flight of marble steps, 
and lay herself down in the water to die. That 
happened every evening, according to the legend, 
an hour after sunset — every evening, for the last 
two hundred years, since poor Agatha, bereft and 
betrayed, had found the Pool kinder than the 
world, and sunk her sorrow and her shame and her 
beauty there — such shame and such beauty as had 
never been before or after in all the generations of 
the Mercerons. 

“ What nonsense it all is ! ” said Millie aloud. 
“ But I’m afraid Charlie is silly enough to be- 
lieve it. ” 

As she spoke her eye fell on a Canadian canoe, 
which lay at the foot of the steps. She recognised 
it as Charlie Merceron’s, and, knowing that ap- 
proach to the temple from the other side was to be 
gained only by a difficult path through a tangled 
wood, and that the canoe usually lay under a little 
shed a few yards from where she stood, she con- 
cluded that Charlie was in the temple. There was 
nothing surprising in that: it was a favourite haunt 
of his. She raised her voice and called to him. At 
first no answer came, and she repeated, 

‘‘Charlie! Charlie!” 

After a moment of waiting a head was thrust out 
of a window in the side of the temple — a head in a 
straw hat. 

“ Hallo ! ” said Charlie Merceron in tones of 
startled surprise. Then, seeing the visitor, he add- 
118 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


ed, “ Oh, it’s you, Millie ! How did you know I 
was here ? ” 

“ By the canoe, of course.” 

“ Hang the canoe ! ” muttered Charlie, and his 
head disappeared. A second later he came out of 
the doorway and down the steps. Standing on the 
lowest, he shouted — the Pool was about sixty feet 
across — “ What do you want ? ” 

“ How rude you are ! ” shouted Miss Bushell in 
reply. 

Charlie got into the canoe and began to paddle 
across. He had just reached the other side, when 
Millie screamed. 

“ Look, look, Charlie ! ” she cried. “ The 
temple!” 

“ What?” 

“ I — I saw something white at the window.” 

Charlie got out of the canoe hastily. 

“ What ? ” he asked again, walking up to Miss 
Bushell. 

“ I declare I saw something white at the window. 
Oh, Charlie ! But it’s all ” 

“Bosh? Of course it is. There’s nothing in 
the temple.” 

“Well, I thought — I wonder you like to be 
there.” 

“ Why shouldn’t I ? ” 

The mysterious appearance not being repeated, 
Millie’s courage returned. 

“ I thought you believed in the ghost,” she said, 
smihng. 


119 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“ So I do ; but I don’t mind it.” 

“ You’ve never seen it ? ” 

“ Supposing I haven’t ? That doesn’t prove it’s 
not true.” 

“ But you’re often here at the time ? ” 

“Never,” answered Charlie with emphasis. “ I 
always go away before the time.” 

“ Then you’d better come now. Put the canoe 
to bed and walk with me.” 

Charlie Merceron thrust his hands into his pock- 
ets and smiled at his companion. He was tall also, 
and just able to look down on her. 

“ No,” he said, “ I’m not going yet.” 

“ How rude — oh, there it is again, Charlie ! I 
saw it! I’m— I’m frightened;” and her healthy 
colour paled a trifle, as she laid a hand on Charlie’s 
arm. 

“I tell you what,” observed Charlie, “if you 
have fancies of this kind you’d better not come here 
any more — not in the evening, at all events. You 
know people who think they’re going to see things 
always do see ’em.” 

“ My heart is positively beating,” said Miss 
Bushell. “I — I don’t quite like walking back 
alone.” 

“ I’ll see you as far as the road,” Charlie conced- 
ed; and with remarkable promptitude he led the 
way, turning his head over his shoulder to remark, 

“ Really, if you’re so nervous, you oughtn’t to 
come here.” 

“ I never will again — not alone, I mean,” 

120 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


Charlie had breasted the hill with such goodwill 
that they were already at the road. 

“ And you’re really going back ? ” she asked. 

‘‘ Oh, just for a few minutes. I left my book in 
the temple — I was reading there. She’s not due 
for half an hour yet, you know.” 

“ What — what happens if you see her? ” 

‘‘Oh, you die,” answered Charlie. “Good- 
night;” and with a smile and a nod he ran down 
the hill towards the Pool. 

Miss Bushell, cavalierly deserted, made her way 
home at something more than her usual rate of 
speed. She had never believed in that nonsense, 
but there was certainly something white at that 
window — something white that moved. Under the 
circumstances, Charhe really might have seen her 
home, she thought, for the wood-fringed road was 
gloomy, and dusk coming on apace. Besides, where 
was the hardship in being her escort ? 

Doubtless none, Charlie would have answered, 
unless a man happened to have other fish to fry. 
The pace at which the canoe crossed the Pool and 
brought up at its old moorings witnessed that he 
had no leisure to spend on Miss Bushell. Leaping 
out, he ran up the steps into the temple, crying in 
a loud whisper, 

“ She’s gone ! ” 

The temple was empty, and Charlie, looking 
round in vexation, added, 

“ So has she, by Jingo ! ” 

He sat down disconsolately on the low marble 
18 121 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


seat that ran round the little shrine. There were 
no signs of the book of which he had spoken to 
Milhe Bushell. There were no signs of anybody 
whom he could have meant to address. Stay ! 
One sign there was : a long hat-pin lay on the floor. 
Charlie picked it up with a sad smile. 

Agatha’s,” he said to himself. 

And yet, as every one in the neighbourhood 
knew, poor Agatha Merceron went nightly to her 
phantom death bareheaded and with golden locks 
tossed by the wind. Moreover the pin was of 
modern manufacture ; moreover ghosts do not 
wear — but there is no need to enter on debatable 
ground ; the pin was utterly modern. 

“Now, if Uncle Van,” mused Charlie, “came 
here and saw this ! ” 

He carefully put the pin in his breast-pocket, and 
looked at his watch. It was exactly Agatha Mer- 
ceron’s time ; yet Charlie leant back on the cold 
marble seat, put his hands in his pockets, and 
gazed up at the ceiling with the happiest possible 
smile on his face. For one steeped in family leg- 
ends, worshipping the hapless lady’s memory with 
warm devotion, and reputed a sincere believer in 
her ghostly wanderings, he awaited her coming 
with marvellous composure. In point of fact he 
had forgotten all about her, and there was nothing 
to prevent her coming, slipping down the steps, 
and noiselessly into the water, all unnoticed by 
him. His eyes were glued to the ceiling, the smile 
played on his lips, his ears were filled with sweet 
122 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


echoes, and his thoughts were far away. Perhaps 
the dead lady came and passed unseen. That 
Charlie did not see her was ridiculously slight evi- 
dence whereon to damn so ancient and picturesque 
a legend. He thought the same himself, for that 
night at dinner — he came in late for dinner — he 
maintained the credit of the story with fierce con- 
viction against Mr. Vansittart Mercerons scepti- 
cism. 


123 


CHAPTER II 


MISS WALLACE’S FRIEND 

In old days the Mercerons had been great folk. 
They had held the earldom of Langbury and the 
barony of Warmley. A failure of direct descent 
in the male line extinguished the earldom ; the 
Lady Agatha was the daughter of the last earl, and 
would have been Baroness Warmley had she lived. 
On her death that title passed to her cousin, and 
continued in that branch till the early days of the 
present century. Then came another break. The 
Lord Warmley of that day, a Regency dandy, had 
a son, but not one who could inherit his honours, 
and away went the barony to a yet younger branch, 
where, falling a few years later into female hands, 
it was merged in a brand new viscounty, and was 
now waiting till chance again should restore it to 
an independent existence. From the Mercerons 
of the Court it was gone for ever, and the blot on 
their escutcheon which lost it them was a sore 
point, from which it behoved visitors and friends to 
refrain their tongues. The Regent had, indeed, 
with his well-known good nature, offered a baro- 
netcy to hide the stain ; but pride forbade, and the 
Mercerons now held no titles, save the modest dig- 
nity which Charlie’s father, made a K.C.B. for ser- 
vices in the North-West Provinces, had left behind 
m 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


him to his widow. But the old house was theirs, 
and a comfortable remnant of the lands, and the 
pictures of the extinct earls and barons, down to 
him whose sins had robbed the line of its surviving 
rank and left it in a position, from an heraldic point 
of view, of doubtful respectability. Lady Merce- 
ron felt so acutely on the subject that she banished 
this last nobleman to the smoking-room. There 
was, considering everything, an appropriateness in 
that position, and he no longer vexed her eyes as 
she sat at meat in the dining-room. She had pur- 
posed a like banishment for Lady Agatha ; but 
here Charlie had interceded, and the unhappy 
beauty hung still behind his mother’s chair and op- 
posite his own. It was just to remember that but 
for poor Agatha’s fault and fate the present branch 
might never have enjoyed the honours at all ; so 
Charlie urged to Lady Merceron, catching at any 
excuse for keeping Lady Agatha. Lady Merce- 
ron’s way of judging pictures may seem peculiar, 
but the fact is that she lacked what is called the 
sense of historical perspective : she did not see 
why our ancestors should be treated so tenderly 
and allowed, with a charitable reference to the 
change in manners, forgiveness for what none to- 
day could hope to win pardon for. Mr. Vansittart 
Merceron smiled at his sister-in-law and shrugged 
his shoulders ; but in vain. To the smoking-room 
went the wicked Lord W armley, and Lady Agatha 
was remarkably lucky in that she did not follow 
him. 


125 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


Mr. Vansittart, half-brother to the late Sir Vic- 
tor, and twenty years younger than he, was a short 
thick-set man, with a smooth round white face, 
and a way of speaking so deliberate and weighty 
that it imparted momentousness to nothings and 
infallibility to nonsense. When he really had 
something sensible to say, and that was very fairly 
often, the effect was enormous. He was now for- 
ty-six, a widower, well off by his marriage, and a 
Member of Parliament. Naturally Lady Merceron 
relied much on his advice, especially in what con- 
cerned her son ; she was hazy about the characters 
and needs of young men, not knowing how they 
should be treated or what appealed to them. Amid 
her haziness, one fact only stood out clear. To 
deal with a young man, you wanted a man of the 
world. In this capacity Mr. Vansittart had now 
been sent for to the Court, the object of his visit 
being nothing less than the arrangement and satis- 
factory settlement of Charlie’s future. 

Mr. Vansittart approached the future through 
the present and the past. 

"‘You wasted your time at school, you wasted 
your time at Oxford, you’re wasting your time 
now,” he remarked, when Charlie and he were left 
alone after dinner. 

Charlie was looking at Lady Agatha’s picture. 
With a sigh he turned to his uncle. 

“ That’s aU very well,” he said tolerantly ; “ but 
what is there for me to do ? ” 

“ If you took more interest in country pursuits 
126 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


it might be different. But you don’t hunt, you 
shoot very seldom ” 

“ And very badly.” 

“And not at all well, as you admit. You say 
you won’t become a magistrate, you show no in- 
terest in politics or — er — social questions. You 
simply moon about.” 

Charlie was vividly reminded of a learned judge 
whom he had once heard pronouncing sentence of 
death. His uncle’s denunciation seemed to lack 
its appropriate conclusion — that he should be 
hanged by the neck till he was dead. He was 
roused to defend himself. 

“You’re quite wrong, uncle,” he said. “I’m 
working hard. I’m writing a history of the family.” 

“A history of the family!” groaned Mr. Van- 
sittart. “ Who wants one ? Who’ll read one ? ” 

“ From an antiquarian point of view ” began 

Charlie stoutly. 

“ Of all ways of wasting time, antiquarianism is 
perhaps the most futile ; ” and Mr. Vansittart 
wiped his mouth with an air of finality. 

“Now the Agatha Merceron story,” continued 
Charlie, “ is in itself ” 

“ Perhaps we’d better finish our talk to-morrow. 
The ladies will expect us in the garden.” 

“ All right,” said Charlie, with much content. 

He enjoyed himself more in the garden, for, 
while Lady Merceron and her brother-in-law took 
counsel, he strolled through the moonlit shrubber- 
ies with Mrs. Marland, and Mrs. Marland was very 
127 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


sympathetically interested in him and his pursuits. 
She was a little eager woman, the very antithesis 
in body and mind to Millie Bushell ; she had 
plenty of brains but very little sense, a good deal 
of charm but no beauty, and, without any coun- 
terbalancing defect at all, a hearty liking for hand- 
some young men. She had also a husband in the 
City. 

“ Ghost-hunting again to-night, Mr. Merceron? ” 
she asked, glancing up at Charlie, who was puffing 
happily at a cigar. 

“ Yes,” he answered, “ I’m very regular.” 

“ And did you see any one ? ” 

‘‘ I saw Millie Bushell.” 

‘‘ Miss Bushell’s hardly ghost-like, is she ? ” 

Well,” said Charlie meditatively, “ I suppose if 
one was fat oneself one’s ghost would be fat, 
wouldn’t it ? ” 

Mrs. Marland, letting the problem alone, laughed 
softly. 

Poor Miss Bushell ! If she heard you say that 1 
Or if Lady Merceron heard you ! ” 

“ It would hardly surprise my mother to hear 
that I thought Millie Bushell plump. She is 
plump, you know ; ” and Charlie’s eyes expressed 
a candid homage to truth. 

“ Oh, I know what’s being arranged for you.” 

« So do I.” 

And you’ll do it. Oh, you think you won’t; 
but you will. Men always end by doing what 
they’re told.” 


128 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


“ Does Mr. Marland ? ” 

“ He begins by it,” laughed his wife. 

“ Is that why he’s not coming till Saturday 
week? ” 

‘‘ Mr. Merceron ! But what was Miss Bushell 
doing at the Pool ? Did she come to find you? ” 

‘‘ Oh, no ; just for a walk.” 

‘‘ Poor girl! ” 

“ Why? It’s good for her.” 

“ I didn’t mean the walk.” 

“ I’d blush if there was light enough to make it 
any use, Mrs. Marland.” 

“ Oh, but I know there’s something. You don’t 
go there every evening to look for a dead lady, Mr. 
Merceron.” 

Charlie stopped short, and took his cigar from 
his mouth. 

“ What ? ” he asked, a little abruptly. 

“Well, I shall follow you some day, and I 
shouldn’t be surprised if I met — not Agatha — 
but ” 

“ Well ? ” asked Charlie, with an uncertain smile. 

“ Why, poor Miss Bushell ! ” 

Charlie laughed and replaced his cigar. 

“ What are we standing still for ? ” he said. 

“ I don’t know. You stopped. She’d be such 
an ideal match for you.” 

“ Then I should never have done for you, Mrs. 
Marland.” 

“ My dear boy, I was married when you were 
still in Eton collars.” 


129 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


They had completed the circuit of the garden, 
and now approached where Lady Merceron sat, en- 
veloped in a shawl. 

“Charlie!” she called. “Here’s a letter from 
Victor Sutton. He’s coming to-morrow.” 

“I didn’t know you’d asked him,” said Charlie, 
with no sign of pleasure at the news. Victor had 
been at school and college with Charlie, and often, 
in his holidays, at the Court, for he was Sir Vic- 
tor’s godson. Yet Charlie did not love him. For 
the rest, he was very rich, and was understood to 
cut something of a figure in London society. 

“Mr. Sutton? Oh, I know him,” exclaimed 
Mrs. Marland. “ He’s charming ! ” 

“ Then you shall entertain him,” said Charlie. 
“ I resign him.” 

“ I can’t think why you’re not more pleased to 
have him here, Charlie,” remarked Lady Merceron. 
“He’s very popular in London, isn’t he, Van- 
sittart?” 

“ I’ve met him at some very good houses,” an- 
swered Mr. Vansittart. And that, he seemed to 
imply, is better than mere popularity. 

“ The Bushells were delighted with him last time 
he was here,” continued Lady Merceron. 

“ There ! A rival for you 1 ” Mrs. Marland 
whispered. 

Charlie laughed cheerfully. Sutton would be no 
rival of his, he thought; and if he and Millie liked 
one another, by all means let them take one 
another. A month before he would hardly have 
130 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


dismissed the question in so summary a fashion, for 
the habit of regarding Millie as a possibility, and 
her readiness as a fact, had grown strong by the 
custom of years, and, far as he was from a passion, 
he might not have enjoyed seeing her allegiance 
transferred to Victor Sutton. Certainly he would 
have suffered defeat from that hand with very bad 
grace. Now, however, everything was changed. 

“ Vansittart,” said Lady Merceron, ‘‘ Charlie and 
I want to consult you ” (she often coupled Charlie’s 
hypothetical desire for advice with her own actual 
one in appeals to Mr. Vansittart) “ about Mr. 
Prime’s rent.” 

‘‘ Oh, at the old farm? ” 

“ Yes. He wants another reduction.” 

“ He’ll want to be paid for staying there next.” 

“Well, poor man, he’s had to take lodgers this 
summer — a thing he’s never done before. Charlie, 
did you know that ? ” 

“Yes,” said Charlie, interrupting an animated 
conversation which he had started with Mrs. Mar- 
land. 

“Do you know who they are?” pursued his 
mother, wandering from Mr. Prime’s rent to the 
more interesting subject of his lodgers. 

“ Ladies from London,” answered Charlie. 

“Rather vague,” commented Mr. Vansittart. 
“ Young ladies or old ladies, Charlie? ” 

“Why does he want to know?” asked Mrs. 
Marland; but chaff had about as much effect on 
Mr. Vansittart as it would have on an ironclad. 

131 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


He seemed not to hear, and awaited an answer 
with a bland smile. In truth, he thought Mrs. 
Marland a silly woman. 

“ Young, I believe,” answered Charlie in a care- 
less tone. 

‘‘ It’s curious I’ve not seen them about,” said 
Lady Merceron. “ I pass the farm almost every 
day. Who are they, Charlie ? ” 

“One’s a Miss Wallace. She’s engaged to 
Willie Prime.” 

“ To Willie ? Fancy ! ” 

“ H’m ! I think,” remarked Mr. Vansittart, 
“ that, from the point of view of a reduction of rent, 
these lodgers are a delusion. Of course she stays 
with Prime if she’s going to marry his son.” 

“ Fancy Willie ! ” reiterated Lady Merceron. 
“ Surely he can’t afford to marry ? He’s in a bank, 
you know, Vansittart, and he only gets a hundred 
and twenty pounds a-year.” 

“ One blessing of the country is that everybody 
knows his neighbour’s income,” observed Mr. Van- 
sittart. 

“Perhaps the lady has money,” suggested Mrs. 
Marland. “But, Mr. Merceron, who’s the other 
lady ? ” 

“ A friend of Miss W allace’s, I believe. I don’t 
know her name.” 

“ Oh, they’re merely friends of Prime’s ? ” Mr. 
Vansittart concluded. “ If that’s all he bases his 
claim for a reduction on ” 

“Hang it! He might as well have it,” inter- 
132 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


rupted Charlie. “ He talks to me about it for 
half an hour every time we meet.” 

“ But, my dear Charlie, you have more time than 
money to waste — at least, so it seems. ’ 

His uncle’s sarcasm never affected Charlie’s 
temper. 

“I’ll turn him on to you, uncle,” he replied, 
“ and you can see how you like it.” 

“I’ll go and call on him to-morrow. You’d 
better come too, Charlie.” 

“ And then you can see the ladies from London,” 
added Mrs. Marland. ‘‘ Perhaps the one who isn’t 
young Mr. Prime’s will be interesting.” 

“ Or,” said Charlie, ‘‘ as mostly happens in this 
woeful world, the one who is.” 

“ I think the less we see of that sort of person at 
all, the better,” observed Lady Merceron with gentle 
decision. “ They can hardly be quite what we re 
accustomed to.” 

“ That sort of person 1 ” 

Charlie went to bed with the phrase ringing in 
his horror-struck ears. If to be the most beautiful, 
the most charming, and the most refined, the 
daintiest, the wittiest and prettiest, the kindest and 
the sweetest, the merriest and most provoking 
creature in the whole world — if to be all this were 
yet not to weigh against being ‘‘ that sort of per- 
son”— if it were not, indeed, to outweigh, banish, and 
obliterate everything else — why, the world was not 
fit to live in, and he no true Merceron ! For the 
Merceron men had always pleased themselves. 

133 


CHAPTER III 


ALL NONSENSE 

On the evening of the next day, while the sun was 
still on the Pool, and its waters, forgetful of darker 
moods and bygone tragedies, smiled under the 
tickling of darting golden gleams, a girl sat on the 
broad lowest step of the temple. She had rolled 
the sleeves of her white gown above her elbow, up 
well-nigh to her shoulder, and, the afternoon being 
sultry, from time to time dipped her arms in the 
water and, taking them out again, amused herself 
by watching the bright drops race down to her rosy 
finger-tips. The sport was good, apparently, for 
she laughed and flung back her head so that the 
stray locks of hair might not spoil her sight of it. 
On either side of this lowest step there was a 
margin of smooth level grass, and, being unable as 
she sat to bathe both arms at once, presently she 
moved on to the grass and lay down, sinking her 
elbows in the pond and leaning her face over the 
edge of it. The posture had another advantage 
she had not thought of, and she laughed again 
when she saw her own eyes twinkling at her from 
the depths. As she lay there a longing came upon 
her. 

“ If I could be sure he wouldn’t come I’d dip my 
feet,” she murmured. 


134 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


As, however, he had come every evening for a 
fortnight past the fancy was not to be indulged, 
and she consoled herself by a deeper dive yet of her 
arms, and by drooping her head till her nose and 
the extreme fringe of her eyelashes were wetted, 
while the stray locks floated on either side. 

Presently, as she still looked, she saw another 
shadow on the water, and exchanged with her 
image a confidential glance. 

“ You again ? ” she asked. 

The other shadow nodded. 

« Why didn’t you come in the canoe ? ” 

‘‘ Because people see it.” 

It struck her that her attitude was unconven- 
tional, and by a lithe complicated movement, where- 
of Charlie noticed only the elegance and not the 
details, she swept round, and, sitting, looked up at 
him. 

“ I know who she was,” she observed. 

“She very nearly knew who you were. You 
oughtn’t to have come to the window.” 

“ She thought I was the ghost.” 

“ You shouldn’t reckon on people being foolish.” 

“ Shouldn’t I ? Yet I reckoned on your coming 
—or there’d have been some more of me in the 
water.” 

“ 1 wish I were an irregular man,” said Charlie. 

She was slowly turning down her sleeves, and, 
ignoring his remark, said, with a question in her 
tones, 

“Nettie Wallace says that Willie Prime says 
135 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 
that everybody says that you’re going to marry that 

girl.” 

‘‘ I believe it’s quite true.” 

Oh ! ” and she looked across the Pool. 

“ True that everybody says so,” added Charlie. 
“ Why do you turn down your sleeves ? ” 

“ How funny I must have looked, sprawling on 
the bank like that ! ” she remarked. 

‘‘ Awful ! ” said Charlie, sitting down. 

She looked at him with uneasiness in her eye. 
“Nothing but an ankle, I swear,” he answered. 
She blushed and smiled. 

“ I think you should whistle, or something, as 
you come.” 

“ Not I,” said Charlie with decision. 

Suddenly she turned to him with a serious face, 
or one that tried to be serious. 

“ Why do you come ? ” she asked. 

“ Why do I eat ? ” he returned. 

“ And yet you were angry the first time.” 
“Nobody likes to be caught ranting out poetry 
— especially his own.” 

“ I believe you were frightened — you thought I 
was Agatha. The poetry was about her, wasn’t it ? ” 
“ It’s not at all a bad poem,” observed Charlie. 
“You remember I liked it so much that I 
clapped my hands.” 

“ And I jumped 1 ” 

The girl laughed. 

“ Ah, well, ” she said, “ it’s time to go home.” 

“ Oh dear no,” said Charlie. 

136 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


“But I’ve promised to be early, because Willie 
Prime’s coming, and I’m to be introduced to him.” 

“Willie Prime can wait. He’s got Miss Wal- 
lace to comfort him, and I’ve got nobody to com- 
fort me.” 

“ Oh yes. Miss BushelL” 

“ You know her name ? ” 

« Yes — and yours — your surname, I mean; you 
told me the other.” 

“ That’s more than you’ve done for me.” 

“ I told you my name was Agatha.” 

“Ah, but that was a joke. I’d been talking 
about Agatha Merceron.” 

“ Very well. I ’m sorry it doesn’t satisfy you. If 
you won’t believe me ! ” 

“ But your surname ? ” 

“ Oh, mine ? Why, mine’s Brown.” 

“ Brown ! ” re-echoed Charlie, with a tinge of 
disappointment in his tone. 

“ Don’t you like it ? ” asked Miss Agatha Brown, 
with a smile. 

“ Oh, it will do for the present,” laughed Charlie. 

“ Well, I don’t mean to keep it all my life. I’ve 
spent to-day, Mr. Merceron, in spying out your 
house. Nettie Wallace and I ventured quite near. 
It’s very pretty.” 

“Rather dilapidated, I’m afraid.” 

“ What’s the time, Mr. Merceron ? ” 

“ Half-past six. Oh, by Jove ! ” 

“ Well ? Afraid of seeing poor Agatha ? ” 

“ I should see nobody but you, if you were here. 

19 137 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


No. I forgot that I Ve got to meet some one at the 
station at a quarter-past seven.” 

“ Oh, do tell me who ! ” 

“ You’d be none the wiser. It’s a Mr. Victor 
Sutton.” 

“ Victor Sutton 1 ” she exclaimed, with a glance 
at Charlie which passed unnoticed by him. “ Is he 
a friend of yours ? ” 

I suppose so. Of my family’s, anyhow.” 

“ Good-bye. I’m going,” she announced. 

“ You’ll be here to-morrow ? ” 

“ Yes. For the last time.” 

She dropped this astounding thunderbolt on 
Charlie’s head as though it had been the most or- 
dinary remark in the world. 

‘‘The last time! Oh, Miss — ” No; somehow 
he could not lay his tongue to that “ Miss Brown.” 

“ I can’t spend all my life in Lang Marsh,” said 
she. 

“ Agatha! ” he burst out. 

“ No, no. This is not the last time. Sha’n’t we 
keep that? ” she asked, with a provokingly light- 
hearted smile. 

“ You promise to be here to-morrow? ” 

“ Oh yes.” 

“I shall have something to say to you then,” 
Charlie announced with a significant air. 

“ Oh, you never lack conversation.” 

“ You’ll be here at five? ” 

“Precisely, she answered with mock gravity; 

“ and now I’m gone ! ” 


138 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


Charlie took off his straw hat, stretched out his 
right hand, and took hers. For a moment she 
drew back ; but he looked very handsome and gal- 
lant as he bowed his head down to her hand, and 
she checked the movement. 

‘‘ Oh, well! ” she murmured ; she was protesting 
against any importance being attached to the in- 
cident. 

Charlie, having paid his homage, walked, or 
rather ran, swiftly away. To begin with, he had 
none too much time if he was to meet Victor Sut- 
ton ; secondly, he was full of a big resolve, and that 
generally makes a man walk fast. 

The lady pursued a more leisurely progress. 
Swinging her hat in her hand, she made her way 
through the tangled wood back to the high road, 
and turned towards Mr. Prime’s farm. She went 
slowly along, thinking, perhaps, of the attractive 
young fellow she had left behind her, wondering, 
perhaps, why she had promised to meet him again. 
She did not know why, for there was sure to hap- 
pen at that last meeting the one thing which she 
did not, she supposed, wish to happen. However 
a promise is a promise. She heard the sound of 
wheels behind her, and, turning, found the farmer s 
spring-cart hard on her heels. The farmer was 
driving, and by his side sat a nice-looking girl 
dressed in the extreme of fashion. On the back 
seat was a young man in a very light suit, wdth a 
fine check pattern, and a new pair of brown leather 

shoes. The cart pulled up. 

139 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 

“We can make room for ye, miss,” said old Mr. 
Prime. 

Nettie Wallace jumped up and stood with her 
foot on the step. Willie Prime jumped down and 
effected her transfer to the back seat. Agatha 
climbed up beside the farmer and stretched her 
hand back to greet Willie. Willie took it rather 
timidly. He did not quite “savvy” (as he ex- 
pressed it to himself) ; his fiancee's friend was very 
simply attired, infinitely more simply than Nettie 
herself. Nettie had told him that her friend was 
“ off and on ” (a vague and rather obscure qualifica- 
tion of the statement) in the same line as herself— 
namely. Court and high-class dressmaking. Yet 
there was a difference between Nettie and her 
friend. 

“Anybody else arrived by the train?” asked 
Agatha. 

“ A visitor for the Court. A good-looking gen- 
tleman, wasn’t he, Willie ? ” 

Nettie was an elegant creature, and, but for the 
“gentleman,” and that shght but ineradicable 
twang that clings like Nessus’ shirt to the cockney, 
all effort and all education notwithstanding (it will 
even last three generations, and is audible, perhaps, 
now and then in the House of Lords), her speech 
was correct, and even dainty in its prim nicety. 

“ Ah ! ” said Agatha. 

“ His name’s Sutton,” said Willie ; “ Mr. Charles 
—young Mr. Merceron— told me so when he was 
talking to me on the platform.” 

140 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


“You know young Mr. Merceron?” asked 
Agatha. 

“ Why, they was boys together,” interrupted the 
old farmer, who made little of the refinements of 
speech. In his youth no one, from the lord to the 
labourer, spoke grammar in the country. “ Used 
to larn to swim together in the Pool, didn’t you, 
Willie?” 

“ I must have a dip there to-morrow,” cried^ Wil- 
lie ; and Agatha wondered what time he would 
choose. “And I’ll take you there, Nettie. Ever 
been yet? ” 

“No. They — they say it’s haunted, don’t they, 
Willie? ” 

“ That’s nonsense,” said WiUie. London makes 
a man sceptical. The old farmer shook his head 
and grunted doubtfully. His mother had seen 
poor Agatha Merceron ; this was before the farmer 
was born — a little while before — and the shock had 
come nigh to being most serious to him. The 
whole countryside knew it. 

“ Why do you call it nonsense, Mr. Prime? ” 
asked Agatha. 

“ Oh, I don’t know. Miss— — ” 

“ Miss Brown, Willie,” said Nettie. 

“Miss Brown. Anyway, we needn’t go the 
time the ghost comes.” 

“ I should certainly avoid that,” laughed Agatha. 

“We’ll go in the morning, Nettie, and I’ll have 
my swim in the evening.” 

Agatha frowned. It would be particularly in- 
141 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 

convenient if Willie Prime took his swim in the 
evening. 

“ Oh, don’t, Willie,” cried Nettie. “ She — she 
might do you some harm.” 

Willie was hard to persuade. He was not above 
liking to appear a daredevil ; and the discussion 
was still raging when they reached the farm. The 
two girls went upstairs to the httle rooms which 
they occupied. Agatha turned into hers, and Net- 
tie Wallace followed her. 

‘‘ Your Willie is very nice,” said Agatha, sitting 
on her bed. 

Nettie smiled with pleasure. 

“ And, now that you’ve other company, I shall 
go.” 

“ You’re going, miss ? ” 

-Not miss'' 

Nettie laughed. 

- I forget sometimes,” she said. 

-Well, you must remember just over to-mor- 
row. I shall go next day. I must meet my grand- 
father in London.” 

Nettie offered no opposition. On the contrary, 
she appeared rather relieved. 

- Nettie, did you hke Mr. Sutton’s looks ? ” asked 
Agatha, after a pause. 

-He’s too blaek and blue for my taste,” an- 
swered Nettie. 

Willie Prime was red and yellow. 

- Blue? Oh, you mean his cheeks? ” 

- Yes. But he’s a handsome gentleman all the 

142 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


same ; and you should have seen his luggage I 
Such a dressing-bag — cost fifty pounds, I dare 
say.” 

‘‘ Oh dear me !” said Agatha. “ Yes, Nettie, I 
shall go the day after to-morrow.” 

“ Mr. Merceron asked to be introduced to me,” 
said Nettie proudly. “And he asked where you 
were — he said he’d seen you at the window.” 

“Did he?” said Agatha negligently; and Net- 
tie, finding the conversation flag, retired to her own 
room. 

Agatha sat a moment longer on the bed. 

“ What a very deceitful young man,” she ex- 
claimed at last. “ I must be a very strict secret 
indeed. Well, I suppose I should be.” 


143 


CHAPTER IV 

A CATASTROPHE AT THE POOL 


Mr. Vansittart Merceron was not quite sure 
that Victor Sutton had any business to call him 
“ Merceron.” He was nearly twenty years older 
than Victor, and a man of considerable position ; 
nor was he, as some middle-aged men are, flattered 
by the implication of contemporaneousness carried 
by the mode of address. But it is hard to give a 
hint to a man who has no inkling that there is room 
for one ; and when Mr. Vansittart addressed Victor 
as “ Mr. Sutton,” the latter graciously told him to 
“hang the Mister.” Reciprocity was inevitable, 
and the elder man asked himself, with a sardonic 
grin, how soon he would be “ Van.” 


“ Coming to bathe, Merceron ? ” he heard under 
his window at eight o’clock the next morning. 
“ W e’re off to the Pool.” ^ 

Mr. Vansittart shouted an emphatic negative, 
and the two young fellows started off by them- 
selves. Charlie’s manner was affected by the cere- 
monious courtesy which a well-bred host betrays 
towards a guest not very well beloved ; but Victor 
id not notice this. It seldom occurred to him that 
people did not like him, 

“ pS’” he was saying, “ Fm just twenty-nine. 
I ve had my fling, Charlie, and now I shall get to 
business. ^ 


144 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


Charlie was relieved to find that according to this 
reckoning he had several more years’ “ fling ” before 
him. 

“ Next year,” pursued Victor, “ I shall marry ; 
then I shall go into Parliament, and then I shall go 
ahead.” 

“ I didn’t know you were engaged.” 

“ No, I’m not, but I’m going to be. I can please 
myself, you see ; I’ve got lots of coin.” 

“ Oh, yes, but can you please the lady ? ” asked 
Charlie. 

“ My dear boy,” began Victor, “ when you’ve 
seen a little more of the world ” 

“Here we are,” said Charlie. “Why, hallo! 
Who’s that?” 

A dripping head and a blowing mouth were visi- 
ble in the middle of the Pool. 

“Willie Prime, by Jove! ’Morning, Willie;” 
and Charlie set about flinging olF his flannels, 
Victor following his example in a more leisurely 
fashion. 

Willie Prime was a httle puzzled to know how 
he ought to treat Charlie. “ Charlie ” he had been 
in very old days — then Master Charlie (that was 
Willie’s mother’s doing)— then Mr. Charles. But 
now Willie had set up for himself. He had played 
billiards with a lord, and football against the Syba- 
rites, and, incidentally, hobnobbed with quite great 
people. It is not very easy to assert a social posi- 
tion when one has nothing on, and only one’s head 

out of water, but Willie did it. 

145 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“ Good-morning — er — Merceron,” said he. 

Victor heard him, and put up his eyeglass in 
amazement ; but he, in his turn, had only a shirt 
on, and the hauteur was a failure. Charlie utterly 
failed to notice the incident. 

“ Is it cold ? ” he shouted. 

‘‘ Beastly,” answered Willie. The man who has 
got in always tells the man who is going to get in 
that it is “ beastly cold.” 

“ Here goes ! ” cried Charlie ; and a minute later 
he was treading water by Willie’s side. 

“ Miss Wallace all fit ? ” he asked. 

“ Thank you, yes, she’s all right.” 

“ And her friend ? ” 

“ All right, I believe.” 

“ And when is it to be, old fellow? ” 

“ Soon as I get a rise.” 

“What?” asked the unsophisticated Charlie, 
who knew the phrase chiefly in connection with 
fish. 

“ A rise of screw, you know.” 

“ Oh, ah, yes— what a fool I am ! ” and Charlie 
disappeared beneath the waves. 

When they were all on the bank, drying, Willie, 
encouraged by not being discouraged (save by Sut- 
ton’s silence) in his advances, ventured further, and 
asked in a joking tone, 

“ And aren’t you marked off yet? We’ve been 
expecting to hear of it for the last twelve months.” 

“ What do you mean? ” 

“ Why, you and Miss Bushell.” 

146 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 

Charlie struggled through his shirt, and then 
answered, with his first touch of distance, 

‘‘Nothing in it. People’ve got no business to 
gossip.” 

“ It’s damned impertinent,” observed Victor Sut- 
ton in slow and deliberate tones. 

Willie flushed. 

“I beg pardon,” he said gruffly. “I only re- 
peated what I heard.” 

“ My dear fellow, no harm’s done,” cried Charlie. 
“ Who was the fool ? ” 

“ Well — in fact — my father.” 

The situation was awkward, but they wisely 
eluded it by laughter. But a thought struck 
Charlie. 

“ I say, did your father state it as a fact ? ” 

“ Oh no ; but as a certainty, you know.” 

“ When?” 

“ Last night at supper.” 

Charlie’s brow clouded. Miss B , that is, 

Agatha, was certain to have been at supper. 
However all that could be put right in the even- 
ing — ^that one blessed evening left to him. He 
looked at Willie and opened his mouth to speak ; 
but he shut it again. It did not seem to him that 
he could question Willie Prime about the lady. 
She had chosen to tell him nothing, and her will 
was his law. But he was yearning to know what 
she was and how she came there. He refrained; 
and this time virtue really had a reward beyond 
itself, for Willie would blithely have told him that 
147 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


she was a dressmaker (he called Nettie, however, 
the manager of a Court modiste's business), and 
that would not have pleased Charlie. 

It was all very w^ell for Charlie to count on that 
blessed evening ; but he reckoned without his host 
— or rather without his guests. 

The Bushells came to lunch, Millie driving her 
terrified mother in a lofty gig ; and at lunch Millie 
recounted her vision of Agatha Merceron. She 
did not believe it, of course ; but it was queer, 
wasn t it ? Victor Sutton rose to the bait at 
once. 

“We’ll investigate it,” he cried. “Merceron” 
(he meant the patient Mr. Vansittart), “ didn’t you 
once write an article on ‘Apparitions’ for In- 
tellect ”? 

“Yes, I proved there were none,” answered Mr. 
Vansittart. 

“ That s impossible, you know,” remarked Mrs. 
Marland gently. 

“ We 11 put you to the proof this very evening,” 
declared Mr. Sutton. 

Charlie started. 

“Are you game. Miss Bushell?” continued 
Victor. 

yes, if you’ll keep quite near me,” an- 
swered Millie, with a playful shudder. Charlie re- 
flected how ill playfulness became her, and frowned. 
But Millie was pleased to see him frown ; she en- 
joyed showing him that other men liked to keep 
quite near to her. 


148 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


“ Then this evening we’ll go in a body to the 
Pool.” 

“ I shall not go,” shuddered Mrs. Marland. 

An hour after sunset ! ” 

‘‘ Half an hour. She might be early — and we’ll 
stay half an hour after. We’ll give her a fair 
show.” 

“ Come,” thought Charlie, “ I shall get an hour 
with Agatha.” 

“ You’ll come, Charlie ? ” asked Victor. 

“ Oh, all right,” he answered, hiding all signs of 
vexation. He could get back by six and join the 
party. But why was Mrs. Marland looking at 
him ? 

The first step, however, towards getting back is 
to get there, and Charlie found this none so easy. 
After lunch came lawn-tennis, and he was im- 
pressed. Mr. Vansittart played a middle-aged 
game, and Victor had found little leisure for this 
modest sport among his more ambitious amuse- 
ments. Charlie had to balance Millie Bushell, and 
he spent a very hot and wearying afternoon. They 
would go on ; Victor declared it was good for him. 
Uncle Van delighted in a hard game (it appeared 
to be a very hard game to him from the number 
of strokes he missed), and Millie grew in vigour, 
ubiquity, and (it must be added) intensity of colour 
as the hours wore away. It was close on five be- 
fore Charlie, with a groan, could throw down his 
racquet. 

“ Poor boy 1 ” said Mrs. Marland. 

149 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 

“ Charlie dear,” called Lady Merceron, who had 
been talking comfortably to Mrs. Bushell in the 
shade, “come and hand the tea. I’m sure you 
must all want some. Millie, my dear, how hot 
you look ! ” 

“ She never will take any care of her complex- 
ion,” complained Mrs. Bushell. 

“ Take care of your stom — ^your health — and 
your complexion will take care of itself,” observed 
Mr. Vansittart. 

“Charlie! Where is the boy?” called Lady 
Merceron again. 

The boy was gone. He was flying as fast as his 
legs would take him to the Pool. Where was that 
cherished interview now ? He could hope only for 
a few wretched minutes — hardly enough to say 
good-bye once— before he must hustle— yes, posi- 
tively hustle— Agatha out of sight. He had heard 
that abominable Sutton remark that they might as 
well start directly after tea. 

He was breathless when he burst through the 
willows. But there he came to a sudden, a dead 
stop, and then drew back into shelter again. There 
on the bank, scarcely a dozen feet from it, sat two 
people a young man with his arm round a young 
woman’s waist. Willie Prime and Nettie Wallace, 

“ by all that’s damnable I ” as Sir Peter says I 
Charlie said something quite as forcible. 

He felt for his watch, but he had left it with his 
waistcoat on the lawn. What was the time ? 
Was it going quickly or slowly? Could he afford 
150 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


to wait, or must he run round to the road and in- 
tercept Agatha ? Five minutes passed in vacilla- 
tion. 

‘‘ I’ll go and stop her,” he said, and began a 
cautious retreat. As he moved he heard Willie’s 
voice. 

“Well, my dear, let’s be off,” said Willie. 

Nettie rose with a sigh of content, adjusted her 
hat coquettishly, and smoothed her skirts. 

“I’m ready, Willie. It’s been beautiful, hasn’t 
it?” 

They came towards Charlie. Evidently they in- 
tended to regain the road by the same path as he 
had chosen. Indeed, from that side of the Pool 
there was no choice, unless one clambered round 
by the muddy bank. 

“We must make haste,” said Willie. “ Father’ll 
want his tea.” 

If they made haste they would be close on his 
heels. Charlie shrank back behind a willow and 
let them go by; then, quick as thought, rushed to 
his canoe and paddled across ; up the steps and 
into the temple he rushed. She wasn’t there! 
Fate is too hard for the best of us sometimes. 
Charlie sat down, and, stretching out his legs, 
stared gloomily at his toes. 

Thus he must have sat nearly ten minutes, when 
a head was put round the Corinthian pilaster of 
the doorway. 

“ Poor boy ! Am I very late ? ” 

Charlie leapt up and forward, breathlessly blurt- 
151 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


ing out joy tempered by uneasiness. Agatha gath- 
ered the difficulty of the position. 

“ Well,” said she, smiling, “ I must disappear, and 
you must go back to your friends.” 

“ No,” said Charlie ; “ I must talk to you.” 

“ But they may come any moment.” 

“ I don’t care ! ” 

‘‘ Oh, but I do. Charlie — What’s the matter ? 
Oh, didn’t I ever call you ‘ Charlie ’ before ? Well, 
Charlie, if you love me (yes, I know !) you’ll not 
let these people see me.” 

‘‘ All right ! Come along. I’ll take you to the 
road and come back. Hallo ! What’s that ? ” 

‘‘ It’s them ! ” exclaimed the lady. 

It was. The pair dived back into the temple. 
On the opposite bank stood MiUie Bushell, Mr. 
Vansittart, and Victor Sutton. 

Hallo, there, Charlie, you thief ! ” cried Victor. 
“ Bring that canoe over here. Miss Bushell wants 
to get to the temple.” 

“ Hush ! Don’t move ! ” whispered Agatha. 

“ But they know I’m here ; they see that con- 
founded canoe.” 

“ Charlie ! Charlie ! ” was shouted across in three 
voices. 

“ What the devil — ” muttered Charlie. 

“ They mustn’t see me,” urged Agatha. 

Victor Sutton’s voice rose clear and distinct. 

“ I’ll unearth him ! ” he cried. “ I know the 
way round. You wait here with Miss Bushell, 
Merceron.” 


152 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


“ Oh, he’s coming round ! ” 

“ I must chance it, ” said Charlie, and he came 
out of hiding. A cry greeted him. Victor was al- 
ready started, but stopped. Charlie embarked and 
shot across. 

“You villain! You gave us the slip,” cried 
Uncle Van. 

Miss Bushell began quietly to embark. Uncle 
Van followed her example. 

“ Oh, Mr. Merceron, you’ll sink us ! ” cried 
Millie. 

Charlie sat glum and silent. The situation beat 
him completely. 

Uncle Van drew back. Millie seized the paddle 
and propelled the canoe out from the bank. 

“ You come round with me, Merceron,” called 
Sutton, and the two men turned to the path. 
“No,” added Victor. “Look here, we can climb 
round here ; ” and he pointed to the bank. There 
was a little narrow muddy track; but it was 
enough. 

The canoe was halfway across ; the two men — 
Victor leading at a good pace— were halfway 
round. Charlie glanced at the window of the 
temple and caught a fleeting glance of a despair- 
ing face. “ If you love me, they mustn’t see me ! ” 

“ Here, give me the paddle ! ” he exclaimed, and 
reached forward for it. 

“ No, I can do it,” answered Millie, lifting the 
instrument out of his reach. 

Charlie stepped forward— rather, he jumped for- 
20 153 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


ward, as a man jumps over a ditch. There was a 
shriek from Millie ; the canoe swayed, tottered, 
and upset. In a confused mass, Millie Bushell and 
Charlie were hurled into the water. Victor and 
Uncle Van, hardly five yards from the steps, turned 
in amazement. 

“Help! help!” screamed Millie. 

“ Help ! ” echoed Charlie. “ I can’t hold her up. 
Victor, come and help me! Uncle Van, come 
along!” 

“ The devil ! ” murmured Uncle Van. 

‘‘Quick, quick!” called Charlie; and Victor, 
with a vexed laugh, peeled off his coat and jumped 
in. Mr. Vansittart stood with a puzzled air. Then 
a happy thought struck him. He turned and 
trotted back the way he had come. He would get 
a rope ! 

As he went, as Victor reached the strugglers in 
the water, a slim figure in white, with a smile on 
her face, stole cautiously from the temple and dis- 
appeared in the wood behind. Charlie saw her go, 
but he held poor Millie’s head remorselessly tight 
towards the other bank. 

And that was the last he saw of the Lady of the 
Pool. 

Millie Bushell landed, her dripping clothes cling- 
ing round her. Victor was shivering, for the even- 
ing had turned chilly. Uncle Van had a bit of 
rope from the boat-shed in his hand, and a doubt- 
ful smile on his face. 

‘‘We’d best get Miss Bushell home,” he sug- 

154 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


gested; and they started in gloomy procession. 
Charlie, in remorse, gave Millie his arm. 

“ Oh, how could you ? ” she murmured piteous- 
ly. She was cold, she was wet, and she was sure 
that she looked frightful. 

“ I — I didn’t do it on purpose,” Charlie blurted 
out eagerly. 

“On purpose! Well, I suppose not,” she ex- 
claimed, bewildered. 

Charlie flushed. Victor shot a swift glance at him. 

Halfway home they met Mrs. Marland, and the 
whole affair had to be explained to her. Charlie 
essayed the task. 

“ Still, I don’t see how you managed to upset 
the canoe,” observed Mrs. Marland. 

“No more do I,” said Victor Sutton. 

Charlie gave it up. 

“ I’m so sorry, Millie,” he whispered. “You 
must try to forgive me.” 

So, once again, the coast was left clear for 
Agatha Merceron, if she came that night. But, 
whether she did or not, the other Agatha came no 
more, and Charlie’s great resolve went unfulfilled. 
Yet the next evening he went alone to the temple, 
and he found, lying on the floor, a little handker- 
chief trimmed with lace and embroidered with the 
name of “Agatha.” This he put in his pocket, 
thanking Heaven that his desperate manoeuvre had 
kept the shrine inviolate the day before. 

“ Poor Millie ! ” said he. “ But then I had to 
do it.” 


155 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“I hear,” remarked Lady Merceron a few days 
later, “that one of Mr. Prime’s friends has left 
him — not Willie’s young lady — the other.” 

“ Has she ? ” asked Charlie. 

No one pursued the subject, and, after a mo- 
ment’s pause, Mrs. Marland, who was sitting next 
Charlie, asked him in a low voice whether he had 
been to the Pool that evening. 

“No,” answered Charlie. “I don’t go every 
night.” 

“ Oh, poor dear Miss Bushell ! ” laughed Mrs. 
Marland ; and, when Charlie looked inquiringly at 
her, she shook her head. 

“You see, I know something of young men,” 
she explained. 


156 


CHAPTER V 


AN UNFORESEEN CASE 

I WISH to goodness,” remarked the Reverend Sig- 
ismund Taylor, rubbing the bridge of his nose with 
a corner of the Manual, “ that the Vicar had never 
introduced Auricular Confession. It may be in 
accordance with the practice of the Primitive 
Church, but — one does meet with such very curi- 
ous cases. There’s nothing the least like it in the 
Manual.” 

He opened the book and searched its pages over 
again. No, the case had not been foreseen. It 
must be included in those which were “ left to the 
discretion of the priest.” 

“ It’s a poor Manual,” said Mr. Taylor, throwing 
it down and putting his hands in the pocket of his 
cassock. “ Poor girl ! She was quite distressed, 
too. I must have something to tell her when she 
comes next week.” 

Mr. Taylor had, in face of the difficulty, taken 
time to consider, and the penitent had gone away 
in suspense. To represent one’s self as a dress- 
maker — ^well, there was nothing very outrageous in 
that ; it was unbecoming, but venial, to tell sundry 
fibs by way of supporting the assumed character — 
the Manual was equal to that; but the rest of the 
disclosure was the crux. Wrong, no doubt, was 
157 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


the conduct — but how wrong ? That made all the 
difference. And then there followed another ques- 
tion: What ought to be done? She had asked for 
advice about that also, and, although such counsel 
was not strictly incumbent on him, he felt that he 
ought not to refuse it. Altogether he was puz- 
zled. At eight and twenty one cannot be ready 
for everything ; yet she had implored him to con- 
sult nobody else, and decide for her himself. ‘‘ IVe 
such trust in you,” she had said, wiping away an 
incipient teardrop ; and, although Mr. Taylor told 
her that the individual was nothing and the Office 
everything, he had been rather gratified. Thinking 
that a turn in the open air might clear his brain and 
enable him better to grapple with this very thorny 
question, he changed his cassock for a long-tailed 
coat, put on his wideawake, and, leaving the pre- 
cincts of St. Edward Confessor, struck across Park 
Lane and along the Row. He passed several peo- 
ple he knew, both men and women : Mrs. Marland 
was there, attended by two young men, and, a lit- 
tle farther on, he saw old Lord Thrapston totter- 
ing along on his stick. Lord Thrapston hated a par- 
son, and scowled at poor Mr. Taylor as he went by. 
Mr. Taylor shrank from meeting his eye, and hur- 
ried along till he reached the Serpentine, where he 
stood still for a few minutes, drinking in the fresh 
breeze. But the breeze could not blow the puzzle 
out of his brain. Was it a crime, or merely an es- 
capade ? What had she said to the young man ? 
What had her feelings been or become towards the 
158 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


young man ? Moreover, what had she caused the 
young man’s feehngs to be for her? When he 
came to think it over, Mr. Taylor discovered, with 
a shock of surprise, that on all these distinctly ma- 
terial points the confession had been singularly in- 
complete. He was ashamed of this, for, of course, 
it was his business to make the confession full and 
exhaustive. He could only plead that, at the mo- 
ment, it had seemed thorough and candid — an un- 
reserved revelation. Yet those points did, as a 
fact, remain obscure. 

“ I wish I knew a little more about human nat- 
ure,” sighed Mr. Taylor; he was thinking of one 
division of human nature, and it is likely enough 
that he knew next to nothing of it. 

A hand clapped him on the shoulder, and, with a 
start, he turned round. A tall young man, in a 
new frock-coat and a faultless hat, stood by him, 
smiling at him. 

“What, Charlie, old fellow!” cried Taylor; 
“ where do you spring from ? ” 

Charlie explained that he was up in town for a 
month or two. 

“It’s splendid to meet you first day! I was 
going to look you up,” he said. 

Sigismund Taylor and Charlie had been intimate 
friends at Oxford, although Charlie was, as time 
counts there, very considerably the junior. For 
the last two or three years they had hardly met. 

“ But what are you up for ? ” 

“ Oh, well, you see, my uncle wants me to get 
159 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 

called to the Bar, or something, so I ran up to have 
a look into it.” 

“ Will that take a month ? ” 

“ Look here, old fellow. I’ve got nothing else to 
do ; I don’t see why I shouldn’t stretch it to three 
months. Besides, 1 want to spend some time with 
my ancestors.” 

“ With your ancestors ? ” 

“ In the British Museum ; I’m writing a book 
about them. Queer lot some of them were, too. 
Of course I’m specially interested in Agatha 
Merceron ; but I suppose you never heard of 
her ? ” 

Mr. Taylor confessed his ignorance, and Charhe, 
taking his arm, walked him up and down the bank, 
while he talked on his pet subject. Agatha Mer- 
ceron was always interesting, and just now any- 
thing about the Pool was interesting ; for there was 
one reason for his visit to London which he had 
not disclosed. Nettie Wallace had, when he met 
her one day, incautiously dropped a word which 
seemed to imply that the other Agatha wa^ often 
in London. Nettie tried to recall her words ; but 
the mischief was done, and Charlie became more 
than ever convinced that he would grow rusty if 
he stayed always at Langbury Court. In fact, he 
could suffer it no longer, and to town he went. 

For a long while Sigismund Taylor listened with 
no more than average interest to Charlie’s story 
but it chanced that one word caught his notice. 

“She comes out of the temple,” said Charlie, in 

160 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


the voice of hushed reverence with which he was 
wont to talk of the unhappy lady. 

“ Out of where ? ” asked Mr. Taylor. 

“The temple. Oh, I forgot. The temple is 
— ” and Charlie gave a description which need not 
be repeated. 

Temple! temple! Where had he heard of a 
temple lately? Mr. Taylor cudgelled his brains. 
Why — why — yes, she had spoken of a temple. 
She said they met in a temple. It was a strange 
coincidence; the word had struck him at the time. 
But then everybody knows that, at a certain period, 
it was common enough to put up these little clas- 
sical erections as a memorial or merely as an orna- 
ment to pleasure grounds. It must be a mere co- 
incidence. But — Mr. Taylor stopped short. 

“ What’s up ? ” asked Charlie, who had finished 
his narrative, and was now studying the faces of 
the ladies who rode past. 

“Nothing,” answered Mr. Taylor. 

And really it was not much ; taken by itself, en- 
tirely unworthy of notice; even taken in conjunc- 
tion with the temple, of no real significance, that 
he could see. Still, it was a whimsical thing that, 
as had just struck him, Charlie’s spectre should be 
named Agatha. But it came to nothing; how 
could the name of Charlie’s spectre have anything 
to do with that of his penitent ? 

Presently Charlie, too, fell into silence. He 
beat his stick moodily against his leg and looked 
glum and absent. 


161 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“ Ah, well,” he said at last, poor Agatha was 
hardly used; she paid part of the debt we owe 
woman.” 

Mr. Taylor raised his brows, and smiled at this 
gloomily misogynistic sentiment. He had the 
perception to grasp in a moment what it indicated. 
His young friend was, or had lately been, or thought 
he was likely to be, a lover, and an unhappy one. 
But he did not press Charlie. Confessions were 
no luxury to him. 

Presently they began to walk back, and Charlie, 
saying he had to dine with Victor Sutton, made an 
appointment to see Taylor again, and, leaving him, 
struck across the Row. Taylor strolled on, and, 
finding Mrs. Marland still in her seat, sat down by 
her. She was surprised and pleased to hear that 
Charlie was in town. 

“ I left him at home in deep dumps. You’ve 
never been to Langbury Court, have you ? ” 

Taylor shook his head. 

“ Such a sweet old place ! But, of course, rather 
dull for a young man, with nobody but his mother 
and just one or two slow country neighbours.” 

‘‘ Oh, a run’ll do him good.” 

“Yes, he was quite moped; ” and Mrs. Marland 
glanced at her companion. She wanted only a 
very little encouragement to impart her suspicions 
to him. It must, in justice to Mrs. Marland, be 
remembered that she had always found the simplest 
explanation of Charlie’s devotion to the Pool hard 
to accept, and the most elaborate demonstration of 
162 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 

how a Canadian canoe may be upset unconvinc- 
ing. 

‘‘ You’re a great friend of his, aren’t you ? ” pur- 
sued Mrs. Marland. So I suppose there’s no harm 
in mentioning my suspicions to you. Indeed I dare 
say you could be of use to him — I mean, persuade 
him to be wise. I’m afraid, Mr. Taylor, that he is 
in some entanglement.” 

‘‘Dear, dear!” murmured Mr. Taylor. 

“ Oh, I’ve no positive proof, but I fear so — and 
a very undesirable entanglement, too, with some 
one quite beneath him. Yes, I think I had better 
tell you about it.” 

Mr. Taylor sat silent and, save for a start or 
two, motionless while his companion detailed her 
circumstantial evidence. Whether it were enough 
to prove Mrs. Marland’s case or not — whether, 
that is, it is inconceivable that a young man should 
go to any place fourteen evenings running, and 
upset a friend of his youth out of a canoe, except 
there be a lady involved, is perhaps doubtful ; 
but it was more than enough to show Mr. 
Sigismund Taylor that the confession he had 
listened to was based on fact, and that Charlie 
Merceron was the other party to those stolen inter- 
views, into whose exact degree of heinousness he 
was now inquiring. This knowledge caused Mr. 
Taylor to feel that he was in an awkward position. 

“Now,” asked Mrs. Marland, “candidly, Mr. 
Taylor, can you suppose anything else than that 
our friend Charlie was carrying on a very pro- 
nounced flirtation with this dressmaker? ” 

163 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 
“ Dressmaker ? ” 

“Her friend was, and I believe she was too. 
Something of the kind, anyhow.” 

“ You — you never saw the — the other person ? ” 
No ; she kept out of the way. That looks bad, 
doesn t it ? No doubt she was a tawdry vulgar 
ereature. But a man never notices that ! ” 

At this moment two people were seen approach- 
ing. One of them was a man of middle height and 
perhaps five and thirty years of age ; he was stout 
and thick-built ; he had a fat face with bulging 
cheeks ; his eyes were rather like a frog’s; he leant 
very much forward as he walked, and swayed 
gently from side to side with a rolling swagger; 
and as his body rolled, his eye roUed too, and he 
looked this way and that with a jovial leer and a 
smile of contentment and amusement on his face. 
The smile and the merry eye redeemed his appear- 
ance fi'om blank ugliness, but neither of them 
indicated a spiritual or exalted mind. 

By his side walked a girl, dressed, as Mrs. Mar- 
land enviously admitted, as really very few women 
m London could dress, and wearing, in virtue 
perhaps of the dress, perhaps of other more precious 
gifts, an air of assured perfection and dainty disdain. 
She was listening to her companion’s conversation, 
and did not notice Sigismund Taylor, with whom 
she was well acquainted. 

“ Dear me, who are those, I wonder ? ” exclaimed 
Mrs. Marland. She’s very distingueeS* 

“ It s Miss Glyn,” answered he. 

164 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


“ What ? — Miss Agatha Glyn ? ” 

“Yes,” he replied, wondering whether that little 
coincidence as to the “Agatha” would suggest 
itself to any one else. 

“ Lord Thrapston’s granddaughter? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Horrid old man, isn’t he ? ” 

“ I know him very slightly.” 

“ And the man — who’s he ? ” 

“Mr. Calder Wentworth.” 

“To be sure. Why, they’re engaged, aren’t 
they ? I saw it in the paper.” 

“ I’m sure I don’t know,” said Mr. Taylor, in a 
voice more troubled than the matter seemed to 
require. “ I saw it in the paper too.” 

“ He’s no beauty, at any rate ; but he’s a great 
match, I suppose ? ” 

“ Oh, perhaps it isn’t true.” 

“ You speak as if you wished it wasn’t. I’ve 
heard about Mr. Wentworth from Victor Sutton — 
you know who I mean ? ” and Mrs. Marland pro- 
ceeded to give some particulars of Calder W ent- 
worth’s career. 

Meanwhile that gentleman himself was telling 
Agatha Glyn a very humorous story. Agatha did 
not laugh. Suddenly she interrupted him. 

“ Why don’t you ask me more about it ? ” 

“ I thought you’d tell me if you wanted me to 
know,” he answered. 

“You are the most insufferable man. Dont 
you care in the least what I do or where I go ? 

165 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“Got perfect confidence in you,” said Calder 
politely. 

“ I don’t deserve it.” 

“ Oh, I daresay not ; but it’s so much more com- 
fortable for me.” 

“ I disappeared — simply disappeared — for a fort- 
night ; and you’ve never asked where I went, or 
what I did, or — or anything.” 

“ Haven’t I ? Where did you go ? ” 

“ I can’t tell you.” 

“ There, you see ! What the dickens was the 
good of my asking ? ” 

“ If you knew what I did I suppose you’d never 
speak to me again.” 

“ All right. Keep it dark then, please.” 

“ For one thing, I met — No, I won’t.” 

“ I never asked you to, you know.” 

They walked on a little way in silence. 

“ Met young Sutton at lunch,” observed Calder. 
“ He’s been rusticating with some relations of old 
Van Merceron’s. They’ve got a nice place appar- 
ently.” 

“ I particularly dislike Mr. Sutton.” 

“ AU right. He sha’n’t come when we’re mar- 
ried. Eh? What?” 

“ I didn’t speak,” said Miss Glyn, who had cer- 
tainly done something. 

“ Beg pardon,” smiled Calder. “ Victor told me 
rather a joke. It appears there’s a young Merceron, 
and the usual rustic beauty, don’t you know — for- 
get the name— but a fat girl, Victor said, and 
166 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


awfully gone on young Merceron. W ell, there’s a 

pond or something ” 

‘‘How long will this story last?” asked Miss 
Glyn with a tragic air. 

“ It’s an uncommon amusing one,” protested 

Calder. “ He upset her in the pond, and ” 

“ Do you mind finishing it some other time ? ” 
“Oh, all right. Thought it’d interest you.” 

“ It doesn’t.” 

“ Never knew such a girl ! No sense of humour ! ” 
commented Calder, with a shake of his head and a 
backward roll of his eye towards his companion. 

But it makes such a difference whether a story 
is new to the hearer. 


167 


CHAPTER VI 


THERE WAS SOMEBODY 

Two worlds and half a dozen industries had con- 
spired to shower gold on Calder Wentworth’s head. 
There was land in the family, brought by his grand- 
mother; there was finance on the paternal side 
(whence came a Portuguese title, carefully es- 
chewed by Calder); there had been a London 
street, half a watering-place, a South African mine, 
and the better part of an American railway. The 
street and the watering-place remained ; the mine 
and the railway had been sold at the top of the 
market. About the same time the family name 
became Wentworth — it had been Stripes, which 
was felt to be absurd — and the family itself began 
to take an exalted place in society. The rise was 
the easier because, when old Mr. Stripes- Went- 
worth died, young Mr. Calder S. Wentworth be- 
came the only representative; and a rich young 
bachelor can rise lightly to heights inaccessible to 
the feet of less happily situated folk. It seemed 
part of Providence’s benevolence that when Lady 
Forte ville asked how many “ Stripes women ” there 
were, the answer could be “None”; whereupon 
the Countess at once invited Mr. Calder Went- 
worth to dinner. Calder went, and rolled his frog’s 
eyes with much amusement when the lady asked 
168 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


him to what W entworths he belonged ; for, as he 
observed to Miss Glyn, whom he had the pleasure 
of escorting, his Wentworths were an entirely new 
brand, and Lady Forteville knew it as well as if 
she had read the letters patent and invented the 
coat-of-arms. 

“ Mr. Wentworth — Mr. Merceron,” said Victor 
Sutton, with a wave of his hand. 

“ I believe I know an uncle of yours — an un- 
common clever fellow,” said Calder, unfolding his 
napkin and glancing round the dining-room of the 
Themis Club. 

‘‘ Oh, Uncle Van? Yes, we consider him our 

55 

“Leading article? Quite so. I’ve heard a bit 
about you too — something about a canoe, eh?” 

Charlie looked somewhat disturbed. 

“Oughtn’t Sutton to have told me? Well, it’s 
too late now, because I’ve told half a dozen fellows.” 

“ But there’s nothing to tell.” 

‘‘Well, I told it to old Thrapston. You don’t 
know him, do you? Cunningest old boy in Lon- 
don. Upon my honour, you know, I shouldn’t 
like to be like old Thrapston, not when I was get- 
ting old, you know. He’s too ” 

“ Well, what did he say ? ” asked Victor. 

“ He said what you never had the sense to see, 
my boy; but I expect Mr. Merceron won’t be 
obliged to me for repeating it.” 

“I should like to hear it,” said Charlie, with 
necessary politeness. 

21 


169 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


W ell, it’s not me, it’s old Thrapston ; and if 
you say it’s wrong. I’ll believe you. Old Thrap- 
ston — Hang it, Victor, that old man ought to be 
hanged ! Why, only the other day I saw him ” 

‘‘ Do stick to the point,” groaned Victor. 

“All right. Well, he said, ‘I’ll lay a guinea 
there was a — And he winked his sinful old eye, 
you know, for all the world hke a what-d’ye-call-it 
on a cathedral — one of those hideous — I say, what 
is the word, Victor ? I saw ’em when Agatha took 
me — Beg pardon, Merceron ? 

Was the world full of Agathas ? If so, it would 
be well not to start whenever one was mentioned. 
Charhe recovered himself. 

“I think you must mean a gurgoyle, ” he said, 
wondering who this Agatha might be. 

“ Of course I do. Fancy forgetting that ! Gur- 
goyle, of course. Well, old Thrapston said, ‘I’ll 
lay a guinea there was a woman in that dashed 
summer-house, Calder, my boy.’ ” 

Victor Sutton’s eyes lighted with a gleam. 

“Well, I’m hanged if I ever thought of that! 
Charlie, you held us all ! ” 

“ Bosh ! ” said Charlie Merceron. “ There was 
no one there.” 

“ All right. But there ought to have been, you 
know— to give interest to the position.” 

“ Honour bright, Charlie ? ” asked Victor Sutton. 

“Shut up, Sutton,” interposed Calder. “He’s 
not in the Divorce Court. Let’s change the sub- 
ject.” 


170 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


Charlie was in a difficulty, but the better course 
seemed to be to allow the subject to be changed, 
in spite of the wink that accompanied Calder’s sug- 
gestion. 

All right,” said Victor. ‘‘ How is Miss Glyn, 
Wentworth?” 

“ Oh, she’s all right. She’s been in the country 
for a bit, but she’s back now. ” 

“ And when is the happy event to be ? ” 

Calder laid down his knife and fork, and re- 
marked deliberately, 

“ I haven’t, my dear boy, the least idea.” 

‘‘ I should hurry her up,” laughed Sutton. 

“ I’d just like — now I should just like to put you 
in my shoes for half an hour, and see you hurry up 
Agatha.” 

“ She couldn’t eat me.” 

“Eat you? No, but she’d flatten you out so 
that you’d go under that door and leave room for 
the jolly draught there is all the same.” 

Sutton laughed complacently. 

“Well, you’re a patient man,” he observed. 
“ For my part, I like a thing to be off or on.” 

It came to Charlie Merceron almost as a surprise 
to find that Victor’s impudence — he could call it 
by no other name — was not reserved for his juniors 
or for young men from the country; but Calder 
took it quite good-humouredly, contenting himself 
with observing, 

“Well, it was very soon off in your case, wasn’t 
it, old fellow?” 


171 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


Sutton flushed. 

“ I’ve told you before that that’s not true,” he 
said angi’ily. 

Calder laughed. 

“ All right, all right. We used to think, once 
upon a time, Merceron, you know, that old Victor 
here was a bit smitten himself; but he hasn’t 
drugged my champagne yet, so, of course, as he 
says, it was all a mistake.” 

After dinner the three separated. Victor had to 
go to a party. Calder Wentworth proposed to 
Charlie that they should take a stroll together with 
a view to seeing whether, when they came oppo- 
site to the door of a music-hall, they would “ feel 
like dropping in to see part of the entertainment. 
Charlie agreed, and, having lit their cigars, they set 
out. He found his new friend amusing, and Cal- 
his part, took a liking for Charlie, largely on 
account of his good looks ; like many plain people, 
he was extremely sensitive to the influence of 
beauty in women and men alike. 

“ I say, old fellow,” he said, pressing Charlie’s 
arm as if he had known him all his life, “ there was 
somebody in that summer-house, eh ? ” 

Charlie turned with a smile and a blush. He felt 
confidential. 

Yes, there was, only Victor ” 

‘‘ Oh, I know. I nearly break his head whenever 
he mentions any girl I like.” 

‘‘You know what he’d have thought — and it 
wasn’t anything like that really,” 

172 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


“Who was she, then ? ” 

“ I — I don’t know.” 

“ Oh, I don’t mean her name, of course. But 
what was she ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Where did she come from ? ” 

“ London, I believe.” 

“ Oh ! I say, that’s a queer go, Merceron.” 

“ I don’t know what to think about it. She’s 
simply vanished,” said poor Charlie, and none 
should wonder that his voice faltered a little. 
Calder Wentworth laughed at many things, but he 
did not laugh now at Charlie Merceron. Indeed 
he looked unusually grave. 

“I should drop it,” he remarked. “It don’t 
look — well — healthy.” 

“ Ah, you’ve never seen her,” said Charlie. 

“No, and I tell you what — it won’t be a bad 
thing if you don’t see her again.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because you’re just in the state of mind to 
marry her.” 

“ And why shouldn’t I ? ” 

Mr. Wentworth made no answer, and they 
walked on till they reached Piccadilly Circus. 
Then Charlie suddenly darted forward. 

“ Hallo, what’s up ? ” cried Calder, following 
him. 

Charlie was talking eagerly to a very smart 
young lady who had just got down from an om- 
nibus. 


173 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


‘‘By Jove! he can’t have found her!” thought 
Calder. 

It was not the unknown, but her friend Nettie 
Wallace, whom Charlie’s quick eye had discerned; 
and the next moment Willie Prime made his ap- 
pearance. Charlie received them both almost with 
enthusiasm, and the news from Lang Marsh was 
asked and given. Calder drew near, and Charlie 
presented his friends to one another with the intent 
that he might get a word with Nettie while Calder 
engrossed her fiancees attention. 

“ Have — have you heard from Miss Brown 
lately ? ” he was just beginning, when Calder, who 
had been looking steadily at Nettie, burst out : 

“Hallo, I say. Miss Wallace, we’ve met before, 
haven’t we ? You know me, don’t you ? ” 

Nettie laughed. 

“Oh, yes, I know you, sir. You’re — ” She 
paused abruptly, and glanced from Charlie to Cal- 
der, and back from Calder to Charlie. Then she 
blushed very red. 

“ Well, who am I ? ” 

“ I— I saw you at— at Miss Glyn’s, Mr. Went- 
worth.” 

“ Course you did — that’s it ; ” and, looking cu- 
riously at the girl’s flushed face, he added, “ Don’t 
be afraid to mention Miss Glyn; Mr. Merceron 
knows all about it.” 

“ All about it, does he, sir? ” cried Nettie. 

“ W^ell, I m glad of that. I haven’t been easy in 
my mind ever since.” 


174 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


Calder s conformation of eye enabled him to in- 
dicate much surprise by facial expression, and at 
this moment he used his power to the full. 

“Awfully kind of you, Miss Wallace,” said he, 
“ but I don’t see where your responsibility comes 
in. Ever since what ? ” 

Nettie shot a glance of inquiry at Charlie, but 
here, too, she met only bewilderment. 

“ Does he know that Miss Glyn is — ” she 
began. 

“ Engaged to me ? Certainly.” 

“ Ohl” 

Willie stood by in silence. He had never heard 
of this Miss Glyn. Charlie, puzzled as he was, was 
too intent on Miss Brown to spend much time 
wondering why Miss Glyn’s affairs should have 
been a trouble to Nettie. 

“You’ll let me know if you hear about her, 
won’t you ? ” he asked in a low voice. 

Nettie gave up the hope of understanding. She 
shook her head. 

“ 1 11 ask her, if I see her, whether she wishes 
it,” she whispered back ; and, with a hasty good- 
night, she seized Willie’s arm and hurried him off. 
Charlie was left alone with Calder. 

“ What the deuce did she mean ? ” asked Calder. 

“ 1 don’t know,” answered Charlie. 

“ Where did you meet her ? ” 

“ Oh, down at home. The fellow she was with 
is a son of a tenant of ours; she’s going to marry 
him.” 


175 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


She’s a nice little girl, but I’m hanged if I know 
what she meant.” 

And, as the one was thinking exclusively of 
Agatha Glyn, and the other spared a thought for 
no one but Agatha Brown, they did not arrive at 
an explanation. 

One result, however, that chance encounter had. 
The next morning Miss Agatha Glyn received a 
letter in the following terms : — 

“ Madam, 

“ I hope you will excuse me intruding, 
but I think you would wish to know that Mr. 
Charles Merceron is in London, and that I met 
him this evening with Mr. Wentworth. As you 
informed me that you had passed Mr. Merceron on 
the road two or three times during your visit to 
Lang Marsh, I think you may wish to be informed 
of the above. I may add that Mr. Merceron is 
aware that you are engaged to Mr. Wentworth, 
but I could not make out how far he was aware of 
what happened at Lang Marsh. I think he does 
not know it. Of course you will know whether 
Mr. Wentworth is aware of your visit there. I 
should be much obliged if you would be so kind as 
to tell me what to say if I meet the gentleman 
again. Mr. Merceron is very pressing in asking 
me for news of you. I am to be married in a fort- 
night from the present date, 

“ And I am. Madam, 

“ Yours respectfully, 

“ Nettie Wallace.” 


176 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


“ In London, and with Calder ! ” exclaimed 
Agatha Glyn. “ Oh dear 1 oh dear ! oh dear 1 
What is to be done? I wish I’d never gone near 
the wretched place ! ” 

Then she took up the letter and re-read it. 

“ He and I mustn’t meet, that’s all,” she said. 

Then she slowly tore the letter into very small 
pieces and put them in the wastepaper basket. 

“ Calder has no idea where I was,” she said, and 
she sat down by the window and looked out over 
the Park for nearly ten minutes. 

“Ah, well! I should like to see him just once 
again. Dear old Pool 1 ” said she. 

Then she suddenly began to laugh — an action 
only to be excused in one in her position, and bur- 
dened with her sins, by the fact of her having at 
the moment a peculiarly vivid vision of Millie 
Bushell going head first out of a canoe. 


177 


CHAPTER VII 


THE INEVITABLE MEETING 

The first Viscount Thrapston had been an eminent 
public character, and the second a respectable pri- 
vate person ; the third had been neither. And yet 
there was some good in the third. He had loved 
his only son with a fondness rare to find ; and for 
ten whole years, while the young man was between 
seventeen and twenty-seven, the old lord lived, for 
his sake, a life open to no reproach. Then the son 
died, leaving a lately married wife and a baby-girl, 
and Lord Thrapston, deprived at once of hope and 
of restraint, returned to his old courses, till age 
came upon him and drove him from practice into 
reminiscence. Mrs. Glyn had outlived her husband 
fifteen years, and then followed him, fairly snubbed 
to death, some said, by her formidable father-in- 
law. The daughter was of sterner stuff, and early 
discovered for herself that nothing worse than a 
scowl or a snarl was to be feared. On her, indeed, 
descended a relic of that tenderness her father had 
enjoyed, and Agatha used to the full the advan- 
tages it gave her. She knew her own importance. 
It is not every girl who will be a peeress in her own 
right, and she amused her grandfather by inform- 
ing him calmly that it was not, on the whole, a 
subject for regret that she had not been a boy. 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


“ You see,” said she, “ we get rid of the new vis- 
county, and it s much better to be Warmley than 
Thrapston.” 

The fact that she was some day to be “Warm- 
ley ” was the mainspring of that hair- brained jaunt 
to Lang Marsh in company with Nettie Wallace. 
Nettie was the daughter of Lord Thrapston s house- 
keeper, and the two girls had been intimate in 
youth, much as Charlie Merceron and Willie Prime 
had been at the Court ; and when Nettie, scorning 
servitude, set up in hfe for herself, Agatha gave her 
her custom, and did not withdraw her friendship. 
In return she received an allegiance which refused 
none of her behests, and a regard which abolished 
all formality between them, except when Nettie got 
a pen in her hand and set herself to compose a po- 
lite letter. The expedition was, of course, to see 
the Court — the old home of the Warmleys — for 
which Agatha felt a sentimental attraction. She 
had told herself that some day, if she were rich (and, 
Lord Thrapston not being rich, she must have had 
some other resource in her mind), she would buy 
back Langbury Court and get rid of the Mercerons 
altogether. There were only a widow and a boy, 
she had heard, and they should have their price. So 
she went to the Court in the businesslike mood of 
a possible purchaser (Calder could afford anything), 
as well as in the romantic mood of a girl escaped 
fi’om everyday surroundings, and plunging into a 
past full of interest to her. Had not she also read 
of Agatha Merceron ? And in this mixed mood 
179 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


she remained till one evening at the Pool she had 
met “ the boy,” when the mood became more mixed 
still. She dared not now look back on the strug- 
gles she had gone through before her meeting with 
the boy became first a daily event, and then the 
daily event. She had indulged herself for once. It 
was not to last ; but for once it was overpoweringly 
sweet to be gazed at by eyes that did not remind 
her of a frog’s, and to see swiftly darting towards 
her a lithe straight figure crowned with a head that 
(so she said) reminded her of Lord Byron’s. But, 
alas ! alas 1 why had nobody told her that the boy 
was like that before she went ? Why did her grand- 
father take no care of her ? Why did Calder never 
show any interest in what she did ? Why, in fine, 
was everybody so cruel as to let her do exactly 
what she liked, and thereby get into a scrape like 
this ? 

One thing was certain. If that boy were in Lon- 
don, she must avoid him. They must never meet. 
It was nonsense for Mr. Sigismund Taylor to talk 
of making a clean breast of it— of a dignified apol- 
ogy to Charlie, coupled with a no less dignified in- 
timation that their acquaintance must be regarded 
as closed. Mr. Taylor knew nothing of the world. 
He even wanted her to tell Calder ! No. She was 
truly and properly penitent, and she hoped that she 
received all he said in that line in a right spirit ; but 
when it came to a question of expediency, she would 
rather have Mrs. Blunt’s advice than that of a thou- 
sand Mr. Taylors. So she wrote to Mrs. Blunt and 
180 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


asked herself to lunch, and Mrs. Blunt, being an 
accomplished painstaking hostess, and having no 
reason to suppose that her young friend desired a 
confidential interview, at once cast about for some 
one whom Agatha would like to meet. She did 
not ask Calder Wentworth — she was not so com- 
monplace as that — but she invited Victor Sutton, 
and, delighting in a happy flash of inspiration, she 
added Mr. Vansittart Merceron. The families were 
connected in some way, she knew, and Agatha cer- 
tainly ought to know Mr. Merceron. 

Accordingly, when Agatha arrived, she found 
Victor, and she had not been there five minutes be- 
fore the butler, throwing open the door, announced 
“ Mr. Merceron.” 

Uncle Van had reached that state of body when 
he took his time over stairs, and between the an- 
nouncement and his entrance there was time for 
Agatha to exclaim, quite audibly, 

- Oh ! ” 

‘‘ What’s the matter, dear ? ” asked Mrs. Blunt ; 
but Uncle Van’s entrance forbade a reply, and left 
Agatha blushing but relieved. 

Was she never to hear the end of that awful 
story? It might be natural that, her hereditary 
connection with the Mercerons being disclosed, Mr. 
Vansittart should dispose of Langbury Court, of the 
Pool, and of Agatha Merceron ; but was it neces- 
sary that Victor Sutton should chime in with the 
whole history of the canoe and Miss Bushell, or joke 
with Mr. Merceron about his nephew’s “assigna- 
181 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


tions ” ? The whole topic seemed in bad taste, and 
she wondered that Mrs. Blunt did not discourage 
it. But what horrible creatures men were ! Did 
they really think it impossible for a girl to like to 
talk to a man for an hour or so in the evening 
without ? 

“You must let me bring my nephew to meet 
Miss Glyn,” said Uncle Van graciously to his host- 
ess. “She is so interested in the family history 
that she and Charlie would get on like wildfire. 
He’s mad about it.” 

“ In fact,” sniggered Victor (Miss Glyn always 
detested that man), “so interested that, as you 
hear, he went to meet Agatha Merceron every 
evening for a fortnight ! ” 

“You’ll be delighted to meet him, won’t you, 
Agatha? We must arrange a day,” said Mrs. 
Blunt. 

“ Calder knows him,” added Victor. 

“He’s an idle young dog,” said Uncle Van, 
“ but a nice fellow. A little flighty and fanciful, 
as boys will be, but no harm in him. You mustn’t 
attach too much importance to our chaff about his 
meetings at the Pool, Miss Glyn ; we don’t mean 
any harm.” 

Agatha tried to smile, but the attempt was not 
a brilliant success. She stammered that she would 
be delighted to meet Mr. Charles Merceron, swear- 
ing in her heart that she would sooner start for 
Tierra del Fuego. But her confession to Mrs. 
Blunt would save her, if only these odious 
182 


men 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 

would go. They had had their coffee, and their 
liqueurs, and their cigarettes. What more, in 
Heaven’s name, could even a man want to propiti- 
ate the god of his idolatry ? 

Apparently the guests themselves became aware 
that they were trespassing, for Uncle Van, turning 
to his hostess with his blandest smile, remarked, 

“I hope we’re not staying too long. The fact 
is, my dear Mrs. Blunt, you’re always so kind that 
we took the liberty of telling Calder Wentworth 
to call for us here. He ought to have come by 
now.” 

Mrs. Blunt declared that she would be offended 
if they thought of going before Calder came. 
Agatha rose in despair; the confession must be 
put off. She held out her hand to her hostess. 
At this moment the door-bell rang. 

“ That’s him,” said Victor. 

‘‘ Sit down again for a minute, dear,” urged Mrs. 
Blunt. 

There was renewed hope for the confession. 
Agatha sat down. But hardly had she done so 
before the strangest presentiment came over her. 
She heard the door below open and shut, and it 
was borne in upon her mind that two men had 
entered. How she guessed it, she could not tell, 
but, as she sat there, she had no doubt at all that 
Charlie Merceron had come with Calder Went- 
worth. Escape was impossible ; but she walked 
across to the window and stood there, with her 
back to the door. 


183 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“ Mr. Wentworth ! ” she heard, and then, cut- 
ting the servant short, came Calder’s voice. 

“ I took the liberty — ” he began ; and she did 
not know how he went on, for her head was swim- 
ming. 

“ Agatha ! Agatha dear ! ” called Mrs. Blunt. 

Perforce she turned, passing her hand quickly 
across her brow. Yes, it was so. There he stood 
by Calder’s side, and Calder was saying, 

“ My dear Agatha, this is Charlie Merceron.*^ 

She would not look at Charlie. She moved 
slowly forward, her eyes fixed on Calder, and bowed 
with a little set smile. Luckily people pay slight 
attention to one another’s expressions on social oc- 
casions, or they must all have noticed her agitation. 
As it was, only Calder W entworth looked curious- 
ly at her before he turned aside to shake hands 
with Uncle Van. 

Then she felt Charlie Merceron coming nearer, 
and, a second later, she heard his voice. 

“ Is it possible that it’s you ? ” he asked in a low 
tone. 

Then she looked at him. His face was pale, and 
his eyes eagerly straining to read what might be in 
hers. 

“ Hush ! ” she whispered. “ Yes. Hush ! hush ! ” 

“ But — but he told me your name was Glyn ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ And he says you’re engaged to him.” 

Agatha clasped her hands, and Calder’s voice 
broke in between them. 


184 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 

Come along, Merceron, we’re waiting for you.” 

They’ve got into antiquities already,” smiled 
Mrs. Blunt. “You must come again, Mr. Mer- 
ceron, and meet Miss Glyn. Mustn’t he, Agatha ? ” 

Agatha threw one glance at him. 

“ If he will,” she said. 

Charlie pulled himself together, muttered some- 
thing appropriate, and shuffled out under his uncle’s 
wing. Mr. Vansittart was surprised to find him a 
trifle confused and awkward in society. 

Outside the house, Charlie ranged up beside 
Calder Wentworth, leaving Uncle Van and Sutton 
together. 

“ Well, what do you think of her ?” asked Cal- 
der. 

Charlie gave no opinion. He asked just one 
question : 

“ How long have you been engaged to her ? ” 

“ How long ? Oh, let’s see. About — yes, just 
about a year. I never knew that there was a sort 
of connection between you and her — sort of re- 
lationship, you know. I ain’t strong on the Peer- 
age.” 

“ A sort of connection I ” There was that in 
more senses than the one Calder had been told of 
by Uncle Van. There was a connection that poor 
Charlie thought Heaven itself had tied on those 
summer evenings by the Pool, which to strengthen 
and confirm for ever he had sallied from his home, 
like a knight in search of his mistress the world over 
in olden days. And he found her — such as this 
22 185 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


girl must be ! Stay ! He did not know all yet. 
Perhaps she had been forced into a bond she hated. 
He knew that happened. Did not stories tell of 
it, and morahsts declaim against it ? This man — 
this creature, Calder Wentworth — was buying her 
with his money, forcing himself on her, brutally 
capturing her. Of course! How could he have 
doubted her? Charlie dropped Calder ’s arm as 
though it had been made of red-hot iron. 

“ Hallo ! ” exclaimed that worthy fellow, un- 
conscious of offence. 

Charlie stopped short. 

“ I can’t come,” he said. ‘‘ I — I’ve remembered 
an engagement ; ” and without more ado he turned 
away, and shot out of sight round the nearest cor- 
ner. 

“ Well, I’m hanged I” said Calder Wentworth, 
and, with a puzzled frown, he joined his other 
friends. 


186 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE MORAL OF IT 

Left alone with Mrs. Blunt, Agatha sank into the 
nearest chair. 

“ A very handsome young man, isn’t he ? ” asked 
the good lady, pushing a chair back into its place. 
“ He’ll be an acquisition, I think.” 

Agatha made no answer, and Mrs. Blunt, glanc- 
ing at her, found her devouring the carpet with a 
stony stare. 

“ What on earth’s the matter, child ? ” 

‘"I’m the wretchedest wickedest girl alive,” de- 
clared Agatha. 

“ Good gracious ! ” 

“ Mrs. Blunt, who do you think was in the sum- 
mer-house when Mr. Merceron went there ? ” 

“My dear, are you ill? You jump about so 
from subject to subject.” 

“ It’s all one subject, Mrs. Blunt. There was a 
girl there.” 

“ Well, my dear, and if there was? Boys will 
be boys; and I’m sure there was no harm.” 

“No harm! Oh!” 

“ Agatha, are you crazy ? ” demanded Mrs. Blunt, 
with an access of sternness. 

“ Could I fancy,” pursued Agatha, in despairing 
playfulness mimicking Uncle Van’s manner, “how 
Miss Bushell looked, and how Victor looked, and 
187 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


how everybody looked ? Could I fancy it ? Why, 
I was there ! ” 

“There! Where?” 

“ Why, in that wretched little temple. I was 
the girl, Mrs. Blunt. I — I — I was the milkmaid, 
as Mr. Sutton says. I was the country wench ! 
Oh dear ! oh dear ! oh dear 1 ” 

Mrs. Blunt, knowing her sex, held out a bottle 
of salts. 

“ I’m not mad,” said Agatha. 

“ You’re nearly hysterical.” 

Agatha took a long sniff. 

“I think I can tell you now,” she said more 
calmly. “ But was ever a girl in such an awful po- 
sition before ? ” 

It is needless to repeat what Mrs. Blunt said. 
Her censures will have been long ago anticipated 
by every right-thinking person, and if she softened 
them down a little more than strict justice al- 
lowed, it must have been because Agatha was an 
old favourite of hers, and Lord Thrapston an old 
antipathy. Upon her word, she always wondered 
that the poor child, brought up by that horrid old 
man, was not twice as bad as she was. 

“ But what am I to do about them ? ” cried 
Agatha. 

“ Them ” evidently meant Calder and Charlie. 

“ Do ? Why, there’s nothing to do. You must 
just apologise to Mr. Merceron, and tell him that 
an end had better be put ” 

“ Oh, I know — Mr. Taylor said that ; but, Mrs. 

188 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 

Blunt, I don’t want an end to be put to our ac- 
quaintance. I like him very, very much. Oh, and 
he thinks me horrid ! Oh ! ” 

‘‘ Take another sniff,” advised Mrs. Blunt. Of 
course, if Mr. Merceron is willing to let bygones be 
bygones, and just be an acquaintance ” 

“Oh, but I know he won’t. If you knew 
Charlie ” 

“ Knew Agatha ? ” 

“ Mr. Merceron,” said Agatha in a very humble 
voice. ‘‘If you knew him at all, you’d know he 
wouldn’t do that.” 

“ Then you must send him about his business. 
Oh, yes, I know. You’ve treated him atrociously, 
but Calder Wentworth must be considered first; 
that is, if you care two straws for the poor fellow, 
which I begin to doubt.” 

“Oh, I do, Mrs. Blunt!” 

“Agatha, you shameless girl, which of these 
men ? ” 

“ Don’t talk as if there were a dozen of them, 
dear Mrs. Blunt. There are only two.” 

“ One too many.” 

“Yes, I know. You — you see, I’m — I’m accus- 
tomed to Calder.” 

“ Oh, are you ? ” 

“Yes. Don’t be unkind, Mrs. Blunt. And 
then Charlie was something so new — such a charm- 
ing change — that ” 

“ Upon my word, you might be your grandfather. 
Talk about heredity, and Ibsen, and all that ! ” 

189 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“ Can’t you help me, dear Mrs. Blunt ? ” 

“ I can’t give you two husbands, if that’s what 
you want. There, child, don’t cry. Never mind 
me. Have another sniff.” 

“I shall go home,” said Agatha. “Perhaps 
grandpapa may be able to advise me.” 

“Your grandfather! Gracious goodness, girl, 
you’re never going to tell him ? ” 

“ Yes, I shall. Grandpapa’s had a lot of expe- 
rience ; he says so.” 

“ I should think he had ! ” whispered Mrs. Blunt 
with uplifted hands. 

“ Good-bye, Mrs. Blunt. You don’t know how 
unhappy I am. Thanks, yes, a hansom, please. 
Mrs. Blunt, are you going to ask Mr. Merceron 
here again ? ” 

Mrs. Blunt’s toleration was exhausted. 

“ Be off with you ! ” she said sternly, pointing a 
forefinger at the door. 

By great good fortune Agatha found Lord 
Thrapston at home. Drawing a footstool beside 
his chair, she sat down. Her agitation was past, 
and she wore a gravely businesslike air. 

“ Grandpapa,” she began, “ I have got something 
to tell you.” 

“Go ahead, my dear,” said the old gentleman, 
stroking her golden hair. Her father had curls like 
that when he was a boy. 

“ Something dreadful I’ve done, you know. But 
you won’t be very angry, will you ? ” 

“ We’ll see.” 


190 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 

You oughtn t to bo, because you ’re not very 
good yourself, are you ? ” and she first glanced up 
into his burnt-out old eyes and then pressed her 
lips on his knotted lean old hand. 

“ Aggy,” said he, ‘‘ 1 expect you play the deuce 
with the young fellows, don’t you ? ” 

Agatha laughed softly, but a frown succeeded. 

“ That’s just it,” she said. “ Now, you’re to lis- 
ten and not interrupt, or I shall never be able to 
manage it. And you’re not to look at me, grand- 
papa.” 

The narrative — that thrice-told tale — began. As 
the comments of Mr. Taylor and Mrs. Blunt were 
omitted, those of Lord Thrapston may well re- 
ceive like treatment, more especially as they tended 
not to edification; but before his granddaughter 
had finished her story the old man had sworn softly 
four times and chuckled audibly twice. 

“ I knew there was a girl in that temple, soon as 
Calder told me,” said he. 

“But you didn’t know who it was. Oh, and 
Calder doesn’t ? ” 

“ Not he. Well, you’ve made a pretty little fool 
of yourself, missie. What are you going to do 
now ? ” 

“ That’s what you’ve got to tell me.” 

“ I ? Oh, I dare say. No, no ; you got into the 
scrape, and you can get out of it. And ” — he sud- 
denly recollected his duties — ‘‘look here, Agatha, 
I must — hang it, Agatha, I shouldn’t be doing my 
duty as — as a grandfather if I didn’t say that it’s a 
191 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


monstrous disgraceful thing of you to have done. 

Yes, d d disgraceful; ” and he took a pinch of 

snufF with an air of severe virtue. 

“Yes, dear; but you shouldn’t swear, should 
you? ” 

Lord Thrapston felt that he had spoilt the moral 
effect of his reproof, and, without dwelling further 
on that aspect of the subject, he addressed his mind 
to the more practical question. The outcome, 
different as the source was, was the same old ver- 
dict. 

“We must tell Calder, my dear. It isn’t right 
to keep him in the dark.” 

“ I can’t tell him. Why must he be told ? ” 

“ Well,” said Lord Thrapston, “it’s just possible, 
^SSy> ho may have something to say to it, 
isn’t it ? ” 

“ I don’t mind what he says,” declared Agatha. 

“ Eh ? Why, I thought you were so fond of 
him.” 

“ So I am.” 

“ And as you’re going to marry him ” 

“I never said I was going to marry him. I only 
said he might be engaged to me, if he liked.” 

“ Oho ! So this young Merceron ” 

“Not at all, grandpapa. Oh, I do wish some- 
body would help me ! ” 

Lord Thrapston rose from his seat. 

“ You must do what you like,” he said. “ I’m 
going to tell Calder.” 

“ Oh, why ? ” 


192 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


“Because,” he answered, “I’m a man of honour.” 

Before the impressive invocation of her grand- 
father’s one religion, Agatha’s opposition collapsed. 

“ I suppose he must be told,” she admitted 
mournfully. “ I expect he’ll never speak to me 
again, and I’m sure Mr. Merceron won’t ; ” and she 
sat on the footstool, the picture of dejection. 

Lord Thrapston was moved to enunciate a 
solemn truth. 

“ Aggy,” said he, shaking his finger at her, “in 
this world you can’t have your fun for nothing.” 
But then he spoilt it by adding regretfully, “ More’s 
the pity ! ” and off he hobbled to the club, intent on 
finding Calder Wentworth. 

For some time after he went, Agatha sat on her 
stool in deep thought. Then she rose, sat down at 
the writing-table, took a pen, and began to bite 
the end of it. At last she started to write : 

“ I don’t know whether I ought to write or not, 
but I must tell you how it happened. Oh, don’t 
think too badly of me! I came down just because 
I had heard so much about the Court, and I 
wanted to see it, and I came as I did with Nettie 
Wallace just for fun. I never meant to say I was 
a dressmaker, you know ; but people would ask 
questions, and I had to say something. I never, 
never thought of you. I thought you were about 
fifteen. And you know — oh, you must know— 
that I met you quite by accident, and was just as 
surprised as you were. And the rest was all your 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 

fault. I didn’t want to come again ; you know I 
refused ever so many times ; and you promised you 
wouldn’t come if I came, and then you did come. 
It was really all your fault. And I’m very, very 
sorry, and you must please try to forgive me, dear 
Mr. Merceron, and not think me a very wicked girl. 
I had no idea of coming every evening, but you per- 
suaded me. You know you persuaded me. And how 
could I tell you I was engaged ? You know you 
never asked me. I would have told you if you had. 
I am telling Mr. Wentworth all about it, and I don’t 
think you ought to have persuaded me to meet you 
as you did. It wasn’t really kind or nice of you, was 
it? Because, of course, I’m not very old, and I don’t 
know much about the world, and I never thought 
of all the horrid things people would say. Do, 
please, keep this quite a secret. I felt I must 
write you just a line. I wonder what you’re think- 
ing about me, or whether you’re thinking about me 
at all. You must never think of me again. I am 
very, very unhappy, and I do most earnestly hope, 
dear Mr. Merceron, that I have not made you un- 
happy. We were both very much to blame, weren’t 
we? But we slipped into it without knowing. 
Good-bye. I don’t think I shall ever forget the 
dear old Pool, and the temple, and — the rest. But 
you must please forget me and forgive me. I am 
very miserable about it, and about everything. I 
think we had better not know each other any more, 
so please don’t answer this. Just put it in the fire, 
and think no more about it or me. I wanted to 
194 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


tell you all this when I saw you to-day, but I 
couldn’t. Good-bye. Why did we ever meet ? 

“Agatha Glyn.” 

She read this rather confused composition over 
twice, growing more sorry for herself each time. 
Then she put it in an envelope, addressed it to 
Charlie, looked out Uncle Van in the Directory, 
and sent it under cover to his residence. Then she 
went and lay down on the hearthrug, and began to 
cry, and through her tears she said aloud to herself, 

“ I wonder whether he’ll write or come.” 

Because it seemed to her entirely impossible that, 
in spite of her prayer, he should put the letter in the 
fire and let her go. Surely he, too, remembered 
the dear old Pool, and the temple, and — the rest 1 


195 


CHAPTER IX 


TWO MEN OF SPIRIT 

The fact is,” observed Lord Thrapston compla- 
cently, “ the girl very much resembles me in dispo- 
sition.” 

Calder’s eyes grew larger and rounder. 

“ Do you really think so ? ” he asked anxiously. 

“ Well, this little lark of hers — hang me, it’s just 
what I should have enjoyed doing fifty years ago.” 

“Ah — er — Lord Thrapston, have you noticed 
the resemblance you speak of in any other way ? ” 

“ That girl, except that she is a girl, is myself 
over again — myself over again.” 

“ The deuce ! ” 

“ I beg your pardon, Calder ? I grow hard of 
hearing.” 

“Nothing, Lord Thrapston. Look here. Lord 
Thrapston ” 

“ Well, well, my dear boy? ” 

“ Oh, nothing ; that is ” 

“ But she’ll be all right in your hands, my boy. 
You must keep an eye on her, don’t you know. 
She’ll need a bit o’ driving ; but I really don’t see 
why you should come to grief I don’t, ’pon my 
soul. No. With tact on your part, you might 
very well pull through.” 

“ How d’ye mean tact. Lord Thrapston? ” 

196 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


“ Oh, amuse her. Let her travel ; give her lots 
of society ; don’t bother her with domestic affairs ; 
don’t let her feel she’s under any obligation — that’s 
what she kicks against. So do I — always did.” 

Calder pulled his moustache. Lord Thrapston 
had briefly sketched the exact opposite of his ideal 
of married life. 

‘‘ The fact is,” continued the old man, ‘‘ the boy’s 
an uncommon handsome boy. She can’t resist 
that. No more can I; never could.” 

There chanced to be a mirror opposite Calder, 
and he considered himself impartially. There was, 
he concluded, every prospect of Miss Glyn resist- 
ing any engrossing passion for him. 

“ It’s very good of you to have told me all about 
it,” he remarked, rising. “ I’ll think it over.” 

Yes, do. Of course, I admit she’s given you a 
perfectly good reason for breaking off your engage- 
ment if you like. Mind that. We don’t feel 
aggrieved, Calder. Act as you think best. We 
admit we’re in the wrong, but we must stand by 
what we’ve done.” 

I shouldn’t like to give her any pain ” 

“ Pain ! Oh dear me, no, my dear boy. She 
won’t fret. Make your mind easy about that.” 

Calder felt a sudden impulse to disclose to Lord 
Thrapston his seeret opinion of him, and he recol- 
lected, with a pang, that in the course of so doing 
he would have to touch on more than one charac- 
teristic shared by the old man and Agatha. Where 
were his visions of a quiet home in the country, of 
197 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


freedom from the irksome duties of society, of an 
obedient and devoted wife, surrounded by children 
and flanked by jam-pots ? He had once painted 
this picture for Agatha, shortly after she had 
agreed to that arrangement which she declined to 
call a promise of marriage ; and it occurred to him 
now that she had allowed the subject to drop with- 
out any expression of concurrence. He took leave 
of Lord Thrapston, and went for a solitary walk. 
He wanted to think. But the position of affairs 
was such that other persons also felt the need of 
reflection, and Calder had not been walking by the 
Row very long before, lifting his eyes, he saw a 
young man approaching. The young man was 
not attired as he ought to have been ; he wore a 
light suit, a dissolute necktie, and a soft wide- 
awake crammed down low on his head. He had 
obviously forsworn the vanities of the world and 
was wearing the willow. He came up to Calder 
and held out his hand. 

“ W entworth,” he said, “ I left you rudely the 
other day. I was doing you an injustice. I 
have heard the truth from Mrs. Blunt. You 
are free from all blame. We — we are fellow-suf- 
ferers.” 

His tones were so mournful that Calder shook 
his hand with warm sympathy, and remarked, 

“ Pretty rough on us both, ain’t it ? ” 

“ For me,” declared Charlie, “everything is over. 
My trust in woman is destroyed ; my pleasure in 
life is ” 


198 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


“Well, I don’t feel Al myself, old chap,” said 
Calder. 

“ I have written to — to her, to say good-bye,” 

“ No, have you, though ? ” 

“What else could I do? Wentworth, do you 
suppose that, even if she was free, I would think of 
her for another moment? Can there be love 
where there is no esteem, no trust, no confi- 
dence?” 

“ I was just thinking that when you came up,” 
said Calder. 

“ No, at whatever cost, I — every self-respecting 
man — must consider first of all what he owes to his 
name, to his family, to his — Wentworth, to his 
unborn children.” 

Calder nodded. 

“You, of course,” pursued Charlie, “will be 
guided by your own judgment. As to that, the 
circumstances seal my lips.” 

“ I don’t like it, you know,” said Calder. 

“ As regards you, she may or may not have ex- 
cuses. I don’t know; but she wilfully and grossly 
deceived me. I have done with her.” 

“ Gad, I believe you’re right, Merceron, old chap ! 
A chap ought to stand up for himself, by Jove! 
You’d never feel safe with her, would you, by 
Jove?” 

“ Good-bye,” said Charlie suddenly. “ I leave 
Paddington by the 4.15.” 

“ Where are you off to ? ” 

“ Hell— I mean home,” answered Charlie. 

199 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


Calder beat his stick against his leg. 

“ I can’t stay here, either,” he said moodily. 

Charlie stretched out his hand again. 

“ Come with me,” said he. 

»Eh? what?” 

“ Come with me ; we’ll forget her together.” 

Calder looked at him. 

“ Well, you are a good chap. Dashed if I don t. 
Yes, I will. We’ll enjoy ourselves like thunder. 
But I say, Merceron, I— I ought to write to her, 
oughtn’t I ? ” 

“ I am just going to write myself.” 

“ To — to say good-bye, eh ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

‘‘ I shall write and break it off.” 

‘‘ Come along. We’ll go to your rooms and get 
the thing done, and then catch the train. My lug- 
gage is at the station now.” 

“ It won’t take me a minute to get mine.” 

‘‘ Wentworth, I’m glad to be rid of her.” 

“ Ah — oh, well — so am I,” said Calder. 

Late that evening the butler presented Miss 
Agatha Glyn with two letters on a salver. As her 
eye fell on the addresses, she started. Her heart 
began to beat. She sat and looked at the two mo- 
mentous missives. 

“Now, which,” she thought, “shall I read first? 
And what shall I do, if they are both obstinate ? ” 

There was another contingency which Miss Glyn 
did not contemplate. 

After a long hesitation, she took up Charlie’s 
200 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


letter, and opened it. It was very short, and be- 
gan abruptly without any words of address : 

“ I have received your letter. Your excuses 
make it worse. I could forgive everything except 
deceit. I leave London to-day. Good-bye. — 
C. M.” 

‘‘ Deceit ! ” cried Agatha. “ How dare he ? 
What a horrid boy ! ” 

She was walking up and down the room in a 
state of great indignation. She had never been 
talked to like that in her life before. It was 
ungentlemanly, cruel, brutal. She flung Charlie s 
letter down on the table angrily. 

“ I am sure poor dear old Calder won’t treat me 
like that! ” she exclaimed, taking up his letter. 

It ran thus — 

“My dear Agatha, 

“ I hope you will believe that I write 
this without any feeling of anger towards you. My 
regard for you remains very great, and I hope we 
shall always be very good friends ; but after long 
and careful consideration, I have come to the con- 
clusion that the story Lord Thrapston told me 
shows conclusively what I have been fearing for 
some time past — namely, that I have not been so 
lucky as to win a real affection from you, and that 
we are not likely to make one another happy. 
Therefore, thanking you very much for your kind- 
ness in the past, I think I had better restore your 
liberty to you. I shall hear with very great pleas- 
23 201 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


ure of your happiness. I leave town to-day for a 
little while, in order that you may not be exposed 
to the awkwardness of meeting me. 

“ Always yours most sincerely, 

“ Calder Wentworth.” 

Agatha passed her hand across her brow ; then 
she re-read Calder’s letter, and then Charlie’s. 
Yes, there was not the least doubt about it ! Both 
of the gentlemen had — well, what they had done 
did not admit of being put into tolerable words. 
With a little shriek Agatha flung herself on the 
sofa. 

The door opened, and Lord Thrapston entered. 

Well, Aggy, what’s the news ? Still bothered 
by your two young men ? Hallo I what’s wrong ? ” 

“Read them!” cried Agatha, with a gesture 
towards the table. 

“ Eh ? Read what? Oh, I see ! ” 

He sat down at the table and put on his glasses. 
Agatha turned her face towards the wall ; for her 
also everything was over. For a time no sound 
was audible save an occasional crackle of the note- 
paper in Lord Thrapston’s shaking fingers. Then, 
to Agatha’s indescribable indignation, there came 
another sort of crackle — a dry, grating, derisive 
chuckle— from that flinty-hearted old man, her 
grandfather. 

“ Good, monstrous good, ’pon my life ! ” said he. 

“ You’re laughing at me ! ” she cried, leaping up. 

“Well, my dear, I’m afraid I am.” 

202 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


“ Oh, how cruel men are ! ” 

“ H’m ! They’re both men of spirit, evidently.” 

“Calder I can just understand. I — perhaps I 
did treat Calder rather badly ” 

‘‘ Oh, you go so far as to admit that, do you, 
Aggy? ” 

‘‘ But Charlie ! Oh, to think that Charlie should 
treat me like that 1 ” and she threw herself on the 
sofa again. 

Lord Thrapston sat quite still. Presently Agatha 
rose, came to the table, and took up her two let- 
ters. She looked at them both; and the old man, 
seeming to notiee nothing, yet kept his eye on her. 

“ I shall destroy these things,” said she ; and she 
tore Calder’s letter into tiny fragments, and flung 
them on the fire. Charlie’s she crumpled up and 
held in her hand. 

‘‘ Good-night, grandpapa,” she said wearily, and 
kissed him. 

‘‘ Good-night, my dear,” he answered. 

And, whatever she did when she went upstairs. 
Lord Thrapston was in a position to swear that 
Charlie’s letter was not destroyed in the drawing- 
room. 


203 


CHAPTER X 


THE INCARNATION OF LADY AGATHA 

‘‘She’s such a dear good girl, Mr. Wentworth,” 
said Lady Merceron. “ She’s the greatest comfort 
I have.” 

It was after luncheon at Langbury Court. Lady 
Merceron and Calder sat on the lawn ; Mrs. Mar- 
land and Millie Bushell were walking up and 
down ; Charlie was lying in a hammock. A week 
had passed since the two young men had startled 
Lady Merceron by their unexpected arrival, and 
since then the good lady had been doing her best 
to entertain them ; for, as she could not help no- 
ticing, they seemed a little dull. It was a great 
change from the whirl of London to the deep pla- 
cidity of the Court, and Lady Merceron could not 
quite understand why Charlie had tired so soon of 
his excursion, or why his friend persisted with so 
much fervour that anything was better than Lon- 
don, and the Court the most charming place he 
had ever seen. Of the two Charlie seemed to feel 
the ennui much the more severely. Yet, while 
Mr. Wentworth spoke of returning to town in a 
few weeks, Charlie asseverated that he had paid 
his last visit to that revolting and disappointing 
place. Lady Merceron wished she had Uncle Van 
by her side to explain these puzzling inconsisten- 
204 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


cies. However there was a bright side to the af- 
fair : the presence of the young men was a god- 
send to poor Millie, who, by reason of the depressed 
state of agriculture, had been obliged this year to 
go without her usual six weeks of London in the 
season. 

“ And she never grumbles about it,” said Lady 
Merceron admiringly. “ She looks after her dis- 
trict, and takes a ride, and plays tennis, when she 
can get a game, poor girl, and is always cheerful 
and happy. She’d be a treasure of a wife to any 
man.” 

“ You’d better persuade Charlie of that. Lady 
Merceron.” 

“ Oh, Charlie never thinks of such a thing as 
marrying. He thinks of nothing but his antiq- 
uities.” 

“Doesn’t he?” asked Calder, with apparent 
sympathy and a covert sad amusement. 

“ Mr. Wentworth,” said Mrs. Marland, approach- 
ing, “ I believe it’s actually a fact that you’ve been 
here a week and have never yet been to the Pool.” 

At this fateful word Calder looked embarrassed, 
Charlie raised his head from the hammock, and 
Millie glanced involuntarily towards him. 

“ We must take you,” pursued Mrs. Marland, 
“this very evening. You’ll come. Miss Bushell ? 

“I don’t think I care very much about the 
Pool,” said Millie. 

“ We won’t let Mr. Merceron take you in his 
canoe this time.” 


205 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


Charlie rolled out of the hammock and came up 
to them. 

“ You must take us to the Pool. I don’t be- 
lieve you’ve been there since you came back. Poor 
Agatha will quite ” 

“ Agatha ! ” exclaimed Calder. 

Agatha Merceron, you know. Why, haven’t 
you heard ? ” 

“ Oh, ah ! Yes, of course. I beg your par- 
don.” 

“ I hate that beastly Pool,” said Charlie. 

“ How can you ? ” smiled Mrs. Marland. ‘‘ You 
used to spend hours there every evening.” 

Charlie glanced uneasily at Calder, who turned 
very red. 

“ Times have changed, have they ? ” Mrs. Mar- 
land asked archly. “ You’ve got tired of looking 
in vain for Agatha ? ” 

“Oh, all right,” said Charlie crossly, “we’ll go 
after tea.” 

Anything seemed better than this rallying mood 
of Mrs. Marland’s. 

Presently the two young men went off together 
to play a game at billiards ; but after half a dozen 
strokes Charlie plumped down in a chair. 

“ I say, Calder, old chap, how do you feel ? ” he 
asked. 

Calder licked his cigar meditatively. 

“ Better,” said he at last. 

“Ohl” 

“ And you ? ” 


206 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


“ Worse — worse every day. I can’t stand it, old 
chap. I shall go back.” 

“ What, to her ? ” 

« Yes.” 

“That’s hardly sticking to our bargain, you 
know.” 

“But, hang it, what’s the good of our both 
cutting her ? ” 

“Oh, I thought you did it because you were 
disgusted with her. That was my reason.” 

“ So it was mine, but ” 

“ Probably she’s got some other fellow by now,” 
observed Calder calmly. 

“ The devil ! ” cried Charlie. “ What makes you 
think so ? ” 

“ Oh, nothing. I know her way, you see.” 

“ You think she’s that sort of girl ? Good 
Heavens ! ” 

“ Well, if she wasn’t, I’d like to know where 
you’d be, my friend. I shouldn’t have the honour 
of your acquaintance.” 

Charlie ignored this point. 

“ And yet you wanted to marry her ? ” 

“ I daresay I was an ass— like better men before 
me — and — er — since me.” 

“Hang it!” cried Charlie. ‘‘I’m sick of the 
whole thing. I’m sick of life. I’m sick of all the 
nonsense of it. For two straws I’d have done with 
it, and marry Millie Bushell.” 

“ What 1 Look here, Charlie ” 

Calder left his sentence unfinished. 

207 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 

‘‘Well?” said Charlie. 

“If,” said Calder slowly, “there are any girls, 
either down here or in London, whom you’re quite 
sure you’ll never want to marry, I should like to be 
introduced to one of ’em, Charlie, if you’ve no ob- 
jections.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ Why, in fact, during this last week, Charlie, I 
have come to have a great esteem for Miss Bushell. 
There’s about her a something — a solidity ” 

“ She can’t help that, poor girl.” 

“ A solidity of mind,” said Calder, a little stiffly. 

“ Oh, I beg pardon. But I say, Calder, what 
are you driving at ? ” 

“ Charhe ! Charlie ! ” sounded from outside. 
“ Tea’s ready.” 

Calder rose and took Charlie by the arm. 

“Should I be safe,” he asked solemnly, “in 
allowing myself to fall in love with Miss Bushell, 
or are you likely to step in again ? ” 

“ You mean it ? Honour bright, Calder ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Where’s Bradshaw ? By Jove, where’s Brad- 
shaw ? ” 

“Bradshaw? What the devil has Bradshaw 
? ” 

“ Why, a train, man — a train to town.” 

“ I don’t want to go to town, bless the man ” 

“You! No, but I do. To town, Calder — to 
Agatha, you old fool.” 

“ Oh, that’s your lay ? ” 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


“Yes, of course. I couldn’t go back on you, 
but if you’re off ” 

“ Charlie, old fellow, think again.” 

“ Go to the deuce 1 Where’s that ? ” 

“ Charlie, Charlie ! Tea ! ” 

“ Hang tea ! ” he cried ; but Calder dragged him 
off, telling him that to-morrow would do for Brad- 
shaw. 

At tea Charlie’s spirits were very much better, 
and it was observed that Calder Wentworth paid 
marked attention to Milhe BusheU, so that, when 
they started for the Pool, Milhe was prevailed upon 
to be one of the party, on the understanding that 
Mr. Wentworth would take care of her. This 
time the expedition went off more quietly than it 
had previously, but at the last moment the ladies 
declared that they would be late for dinner if they 
waited tiU it was time for Agatha Merceron to 
come. 

“ Oh, nonsense 1 ” said Calder. “ Come over to 
the temple. Miss Bushell. I won’t upset the canoe.” 

“ WeU, if you insist,” said Milhe. 

Then Mrs. Marland remarked, in the quietest 
voice in the world, 

“ There’s some one in the temple.” 

“ What ? ” cried Milhe. 

“ Eh ? ” exclaimed Calder. 

“Nonsense!” said Charhe. 

“I saw a face at the window,” insisted Mrs. 

Marland. » , , „ 

“ Oh, Mrs. Marland 1 Was it very awful ? 

209 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“Not at all, Millie — very pretty,” and she gave 
Charlie a look full of meaning. 

“ Look, look ! ” cried Millie, in strong agitation. 
And, as they looked, a slim figure in white came 
quietly out of the temple, a smile — and, alas ! no 
vestige of a blush — on her face, walked composedly 
down the steps, and, standing on the lowest one, 
thence — did not throw herself into the water — but 
called, in the most natural voice in the world, 

“ Which of you is coming to fetch me ? ” 

Charlie looked at Calder. Calder said, 

“ I think you’d better put her across, old man. 
And — er — we might as well walk on.” 

They turned away, Millie’s eyes wide in surprise, 
Mrs. Marland smiling the smile of triumphant 
sagacity. 

“ I was coming to you to-morrow,” cried Charlie, 
the moment his canoe bumped against the steps. 

“What do you mean, sir, by staying away a 
whole week ? How could you ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Charlie. “You see, I 

couldn’t come till Calder ” 

“ Oh, what about Calder ? ” 

“ He’s all right.” 

“What? Miss — the girl you upset out of the 
canoe ? ” 

“ I think so,” said Charlie. 

“ Ah, well ! ” said Agatha. “ But how very 
curious ! ” Then she smiled at Charlie, and asked, 
“ But what love can there be, Mr. Merceron, 
where there is deceit ? ” 


210 


THE LADY OF THE POOL 


Charlie took no notice at all of this question. 

‘‘ Do you mind Calder going ? ” he whispered. 

“Well, not much,” said Miss Glyn. 

Thus it was that the barony of Warmley returned 
to the house of Merceron, and the portrait of the 
wicked lord came to hang once more in the dining- 
room. So the curtain falls on the comedy; and 
what happened afterward behind the scenes, 
whether another comedy, or a tragedy, or a mixed 
half-and-half sort of entertainment, now grave, now 
gay, sometimes perhaps delightful, and again of 
tempered charm — why, as to all this, what reck the 
spectators who are crowding out of the theatre and 
home to bed ? 

But it seems as if, in spite of certain drawbacks 
in Agatha Merceron’s character, nothing very 
dreadful can have happened, because Mr. and Mrs. 
Wentworth, who are very particular folk, went to 
stay at the Court the other day, and their only 
complaint was that Charlie and his bride were al- 
ways at the Pool ! 

And, for his own part, if he may be allowed a 
word (which some people say he ought not to be) 
here, just at the end, the writer begs to say that he 
once knew Agatha, and — he would have taken the 
risks. However, a lady to whom he has shown 
this history differs entirely from him, and thinks 
that no sensible man would have married her. But, 
then, that is not the question. 


211 







THE PHILOSOPHER IN THE 
APPLE ORCHARD 


It was a charmingly mild and balmy day. The 
sun shone beyond the orchard, and the shade was 
cool inside. A light breeze stirred the boughs of 
the old apple tree under which the philosopher sat. 
None of these things did the philosopher notice, 
unless it might be when the wind blew about the 
leaves of the large volume on his knees, and he had 
to find his place again. Then he would exclaim 
against the wind, shuffle the leaves till he got the 
right page, and settle to his reading. The book 
was a treatise on ontology ; it was written by 
another philosopher, a friend of this philosopher’s ; 
it bristled with fallacies, and this philosopher was 
discovering them all, and noting them on the ffy- 
leaf at the end. He was not going to review the 
book (as some might have thought from his be- 
haviour), or even to answer it in a work of his own. 
It was just that he found a pleasure in stripping 
any poor fallacy naked and crucifying it. 

Presently a girl in a white frock came into the 
orchard. She picked up an apple, bit it, and found 
it ripe. Holding it in her hand, she walked up to 
where the philosopher sat, and looked at him. He 
did not stir. She took a bite out of the apple, 
munched it, and swallowed it. The philosopher 
213 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


crucified a fallacy on the fly-leaf. The girl flung 
the apple away. 

‘‘Mr. Jerningham,” said she, “are you very 
busy ? ” 

The philosopher, pencil in hand, looked up. 

“No, Miss May,” said he, “ not very.” 

“ Because I want your opinion.” 

“ In one moment,” said the philosopher apolo- 
getically. 

He turned back to the fly-leaf, and began to nail 
the last fallacy a little tighter to the cross. The girl 
regarded him, first with amused impatience, then 
with a vexed frown. Anally with a wistful regret. 
He was so very old for his age, she thought ; he 
could not be much beyond thirty; his hair was 
thick and full of waves, his eyes bright and clear, 
his complexion not yet divested of all youth’s 
relics. 

“Now, Miss May, I’m at your service,” said the 
philosopher, with a lingering look at his impaled 
fallacy. And he closed the book, keeping it, how- 
ever, on his knee. 

The girl sat down just opposite to him. 

“ It’s a very important thing I want to ask you,” 
she began, tugging at a tuft of grass, “and it’s 
very — difficult, and you mustn’t tell any one I 
asked you; at least, I’d rather you didn’t.” 

“ I shall not speak of it ; indeed, I shall probably 
not remember it,” said the philosopher. 

“ And you mustn’t look at me, please, while I’m 
asking you.” 


214 


THE PHILOSOPHER IN THE ORCHARD 

“ I don’t think I was looking at you, but if I was 
I your pardon,” said the philosopher apolo- 
getically. 

She pulled the tutt of grass right out of the 
ground and flung it from her with all her force. 

“Suppose a man—” she began. “No, that’s 
not right.” 

“You can take any hypothesis you please,” ob- 
served the philosopher, “ but you must verify it 
afterward, of course.” 

“Oh, do let me go on. Suppose a girl, Mr. 
Jerningham — I wish you wouldn’t nod.” 

“ It was only to show that I followed you.” 

“ Oh, of course you ‘ follow me,’ as you call it. 
Suppose a girl had two lovers — you’re nodding 
again ! — or, I ought to say, suppose there were two 
men who might be in love with a girl.” 

“Only two?” asked the philosopher. “You 
see, any number of men might be in love with ” 

“ Oh, we can leave the rest out,” said Miss May, 
with a sudden dimple; “ they don’t matter.” 

“Very well,” said the philosopher. “If they 
are irrelevant we will put them aside.” 

“ Suppose, then, that one of these men was, oh, 
awfully in love with the girl, and — and proposed, 
you know ” 

“ A moment ! ” said the philosopher, opening a 
note-book. “ Let me take down his proposition. 
What was it ? ” 

“Why, proposed to her — asked her to marry 
him,” said the girl, with a stare. 

215 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 

“ Dear me 1 How stupid of me ! I forgot that 
special use of the word. Yes ? ” 

“ The girl likes him pretty well, and her people 
approve of him, and all that, you know. 

‘‘ That simplifies the problem,” said the philoso- 
pher, nodding again. 

‘‘ But she’s not in — in love with him, you know. 
She doesn’t recdly care for him — much. Do you 
understand ? ” 

“ Perfectly. It is a most natural state of mind.” 

“ Well, then, suppose that there’s another man — 
What are you writing ? ” 

I only put down (B) — hke that,” pleaded the 
philosopher, meekly exhibiting his note-book. 

She looked at him in a sort of helpless exas- 
peration, with just a smile somewhere in the 
background of it. 

“ Oh, you really are — ! ” she exclaimed. ‘‘ But 
let me go on. The other man is a friend of the 
girl’s ; he’s very clever — oh, fearfully clever ; and 
he’s rather handsome. You needn’t put that 
down.” 

“It is certainly not very material,” admitted 
the philosopher, and he crossed out “handsome.” 
“ Clever ” he left. 

“And the girl is most awfully — she admires 
him tremendously; she thinks him just the great- 
est man that ever lived, you know. And she — 
she — ” The girl paused. 

“ I’m following,” said the philosopher, with 
pencil poised. 


216 


THE PHILOSOPHER IN THE ORCHARD 


“ She’d think it better than the whole world if 
— if she could be anything to him, you know.” 

‘‘You mean become his wife?” 

“ Well, of course I do — at least I suppose I 
do.” 

“ You spoke rather vaguely, you know.” 

The girl cast one glance at the philosopher as 
she replied, 

“ Well, yes. I did mean become his wife.” 

“Yes. Well?” 

“ But,” continued the girl, starting on another 
tuft of grass, “ he doesn’t think much about 
those things. He Ukes her. I think he likes 
her ” 

“ WeU, doesn’t dislike her? ” suggested the phi- 
losopher. “ Shall we call him indifferent ? ” 

“ I don’t know. Yes, rather indifferent. I 
don’t think he thinks about it, you know. But 
she — she’s pretty. You needn’t put that down.” 

“I was not about to do so,” observed the 
philosopher. 

“She thinks life with him would be just 
heaven; and — and she thinks she would make 
him awfully happy. She would — would be so 
proud of him, you see.” 

“ I see. Yes? ” 

“ And — I don’t know how to put it, quite — 
she thinks that if he ever thought about it at 
all, he might care for her; because he doesn’t 
care for anybody else; and she’s pretty ” 

“You said that before.” 

24 217 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“ Oh, dear, I dare say I did. And most men 
care for somebody, don’t they ? — some girl, I 
mean.” 

‘‘Most men, no doubt,” conceded the philoso- 
pher. 

“ Well, then, what ought she to do ? It’s not a 
real thing, you know, Mr. Jerningham. It’s in — 
in a novel I was reading.” She said this hastily, 
and blushed as she spoke. 

“ Dear me ! And it’s quite an interesting case ! 
Yes, I see. The question is. Will she act most 
wisely in accepting the offer of the man who loves 
her exceedingly, but for whom she entertains only 
a moderate affection ” 

“ Yes. Just a liking. He’s just a friend.” 

“ Exactly. Or in marrying the other whom she 
loves ex ” 

“ That’s not it. How can she marry him ? He 
hasn’t — he hasn’t asked her, you see.” 

“True. I forgot. Let us assume, though, for 
the moment, that he has asked her. She would 
then have to consider which marriage would prob- 
ably be productive of the greater sum total of ” 

“ Oh, but you needn’t consider that.” 

“ But it seems the best logical order. We can 
afterward make allowance for the element of un- 
certainty caused by ” 

“ Oh, no. I don’t want it like that. I know 
perfectly well what she’d do if he — the other man, 
you know — asked her.” 

“ You apprehend that ? ” 

218 


THE PHILOSOPHER IN THE ORCHARD 

“ Never mind what I ‘ apprehend.’ Take it just 
as I told you.” 

“ Very good. A has asked her hand, B has 
not.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ May I take it that, but for the disturbing in- 
fluenee of B, A would be a satisfactory — er — can- 
didate ? ” 

“ Ye — es. I think so.” 

“ She therefore enjoys a certainty of considerable 
happiness if she marries A ? ” 

“Ye — es. Not perfect, because of — B, you 
know.” 

“ Quite so, quite so ; but still a fair amount of 
happiness. Is it not so ? ” 

“ I don’t — well, perhaps.” 

“ On the other hand, if B did ask her, we are to 
postulate a higher degree of happiness for her ? ” 

“ Yes, please, Mr. Jerningham — much higher.” 

“ For both of them? ” 

“ For her. Never mind him.” 

“ Very well. That again simplifies the problem. 
But his asking her is a contingency only ? ” 

“ Yes, that’s all.” 

The philosopher spread out his hands. 

“ My dear young lady,” he said, “ it becomes a 
question of degree. How probable or improbable 
is it?” 

“I don’t know. Not very probable — unless — 
unless ” 

“ Well?” 


219 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 

Unless he did happen to notice, you know.” 

“ Ah, yes. W e supposed that, if he thought of 
it, he would probably take the desired step at 
least, that he might be led to do so. Could she 
not — er — indicate her preference? ” 

“ She might try — no, she couldn t do much. 
You see, he— he doesn’t think about such things.” 

“ I understand precisely. And it seems to me. 
Miss May, that in that very fact we find our solu- 
tion.” 

“ Do we ? ” she asked. 

I think so. He has evidently no natural in- 
clination towards her — perhaps not towards mar- 
riage at all. Any feehng aroused in him would be 
necessarily shallow and in a measure artificial — and 
in all likelihood purely temporary. Moreover, if 
she took steps to arouse his attention, one of two 
things would be likely to happen. Are you follow- 
ing me ? ” 

“ Yes, Mr. Jerningham.” 

“ Either he would be repelled by her overtures— 
which you must admit is not improbable and then 
the position would be unpleasant, and even de- 
grading, for her; or, on the other hand, he might, 
through a misplaced feeling of gallantry 

‘‘ Through what ? ” 

“ Through a mistaken idea of politeness, or a 
mistaken view of what was kind, allow himself to 
be drawn into a connection for which he had no 
genuine liking. You agree with me that one or 
other of these things would be likely ? ” 

220 


THE PHILOSOPHER IN THE ORCHARD 


“ Yes, I suppose they would, unless he did come 
to care for her.” 

“ Ah, you return to that hypothesis. I think it’s 
an extremely fanciful one. No. She needn’t marry 
A, but she must let B alone.” 

The philosopher closed his book, took off his 
glasses, wiped them, replaced them, and leaned 
back against the trunk of the apple tree. The girl 
picked a dandelion in pieces. After a long pause 
she asked, 

“ You think B’s feelings wouldn’t be at all likely 
to — to change ? ” 

“ That depends on the sort of man he is. But 
if he is an able man, with intellectual interests 
which engross him — a man who has chosen his path 
in life — a man to whom women’s society is not a 
necessity ” 

“ He’s just like that,” said the girl, and she bit 
the head off a daisy. 

‘‘ Then,” said the philosopher, “ I see not the 
least reason for supposing that his feelings will 
change.” 

“ And would you advise her to marry the other 
—A ? ” 

“ Well, on the whole, I should. A is a good 
fellow (I think we made A a good fellow) ; he is 
a suitable match, his love for her is true and gen- 
uine ” 

“ It’s tremendous ! ” 

«Yes — and — er — extreme. She likes him. There 
is every reason to hope that her liking will develop 
221 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


into a sufficiently deep and stable affection. She 
will get rid of her folly about B, and make A a 
good wife. Yes, Miss May, if I were the author 
of your novel, I should make her marry A, and I 
should call that a happy ending.” 

A silence followed. It was broken by the phi- 
losopher. 

“ Is that all you wanted my opinion about. Miss 
May ? ” he asked, with his finger between the leaves 
of the treatise on ontology. 

“ Yes, I think so. I hope I haven’t bored you ? ” 

“ I’ve enjoyed the discussion extremely. I had 
no idea that novels raised points of such psycho- 
logical interest. I must find time to read one.” 

The girl had shifted her position till, instead of 
her full face, her profile was turned towards him. 
Looking away towards the paddock that lay brill- 
iant in sunshine on the skirts of the apple orchard, 
she asked, in low slow tones, twisting her hands in 
her lap, 

“ Don’t you think that perhaps if B found out 
afterward — when she had married A, you know — 
that she had cared for him so very, very much, he 
might be a little sorry ? ” 

“ If he were a gentleman, he would regret it 
deeply.” 

“ I mean — sorry on his own account ; that — that 
he had thrown away all that, you know? ” 

The Professor looked meditative. 

“ I think,” he pronounced, “ that it is very possi- 
ble he would. I can well imagine it.” 

222 


THE PHILOSOPHER IN THE ORCHARD 

“ He might never find anybody to love him like 
that again,” she said, gazing on the gleaming 
paddock. 

“ He probably would not,” agreed the philos- 
opher. 

“ And — and most people like being loved, don’t 
they ? ” 

“ To crave for love is an almost universal instinct. 
Miss May.” 

‘‘ Yes, almost,” she said, with a dreary little smile. 
“ You see, he’ll get old and — and have no one to 
look after him.” 

He will.” 

“ And no home.” 

“ W ell, in a sense, none,” corrected the philoso- 
pher, smiling. ‘‘ But really you’ll frighten me. 
I’m a bachelor myself, you know. Miss May.” 

“ Yes,” she whispered just audibly. 

“ And all your terrors are before me.” 

“ W ell, unless ” 

“ Oh, we needn’t have that ‘ unless,’ ” laughed 
the philosopher cheerfully. “ There’s no ‘ unless ’ 
about it. Miss May.” 

The girl jumped to her feet; for an instant she 
looked at the philosopher. She opened her lips as 
if to speak, and, at the thought of what lay at her 
tongue’s tip, her face grew red. But the philoso- 
pher was gazing past her, and his eyes rested in 
calm contemplation on the gleaming paddock. 

“ A beautiful thing, sunshine, to be sure,” 
said he. 


223 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 

Her blush faded away into paleness; her lips 
closed. Without speaking, she turned and walked 
slowly away, her head drooping. The philosopher 
heard the rustle of her skirt in the long grass of the 
orchard ; he watched her for a few moments. 

“ A pretty graceful creature,” said he with a 
smile. Then he opened his book, took his pencil 
in his hand, and slipped in a careful forefinger to 
mark the fiy-leaf. 

The sun had passed mid-heaven, and began to 
decline westward before he finished the book. 
Then he stretched himself and looked at his 
watch. 

‘‘ Good gracious, two o’clock ! I shall be late 
for lunch 1 ” and he hurried to his feet. 

He was very late for lunch. 

“ Everything’s cold,” wailed his hostess. “Where 
have you been, Mr. Jerningham ? ” 

“ Only in the orchard — ^reading.” 

“ And you’ve missed May 1 ” 

“ Missed Miss May ? How do you mean ? I 
had a long talk with her this morning — a most in- 
teresting talk.” 

“ But you weren’t here to say good-bye. Now, 
you don’t mean to say that you forgot that she 
was leaving by the two o’clock train ? W^hat a 
man you are ! ” 

“ Dear me 1 To think of my forgetting it 1 ” 
said the philosopher shamefacedly. 

“ She told me to say good-bye to you for her.” 

“ She’s very kind. I can’t forgive myself.” 

224 


the philosopher in the orchard 

His hostess looked at him for a moment; then 
she sighed, and smiled, and sighed again. 

“ Have you everything you want ? ” she asked. 

“ Everything, thank you,” said he, sitting down 
opposite the cheese, and propping his book (he 
thought he would just run through the last chap- 
ter again) against the loaf; ‘‘everything in the 
world that I want, thanks.” 

His hostess did not tell him that the girl had 
come in from the apple orchard, and run hastily 
upstairs, lest her friend should see what her friend 
did see in her eyes. So that he had no suspicion 
at all that he had received an offer of marriage — 
and refused it. And he did not refer to anything 
of that sort when he paused once in his reading and 
exclaimed : 

“ I’m really sorry I missed Miss May. That was 
an interesting case of hers. But I gave the right 
answer. The girl ought to marry A.” 

And so the girl did. 


225 



I 


\ 


. I 


A 


THE CURATE OF POLTONS 


I MUST confess at once that at first, at least, I very 
much admired the Curate. I am not referring to 
my admiration of his fine figure — six feet high and 
straight as an arrow — nor of his handsome, open, 
ingenuous countenance, or his candid blue eye, or 
his thick curly hair. No; what won my heart from 
an early period of my visit to my cousins, the Pol- 
tons of Poltons Park, was the fervent, undisguised, 
unashamed, confident, and altogether matter-of- 
course manner in which he made love to Miss Bea- 
trice Queenborough, only daughter and heiress of 
the wealthy shipowner. Sir WagstafF Queenbor- 
ough, Bart., and Eleanor his wife. It was purely 
the manner of the Curate’s advances that took my 
fancy; in the mere fact of them there was nothing 
remarkable. All the men in the house (and a good 
many outside) made covert, stealthy, and indirect 
steps in the same direction ; for Trix (as her friends 
called her) was, if not wise, at least pretty and 
witty, displaying to the material eye a charming 
figure, and to the mental a delicate heartlessness — 
both attributes which challenge a self-respecting 
man’s best efforts. But then came the fatal obsta- 
cle. From heiresses in reason a gentleman need 
neither shrink nor let himself be driven ; but when 
it comes to something like twenty thousand a year 
227 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


— the reported amount of Trix’s dot — he distrusts 
his own motives almost as much as the lady’s rela- 
tives distrust them for him. We all felt this — 
Stanton, Rippleby, and I ; and, although I will not 
swear that we spoke no tender words and gave no 
meaning glances, yet we reduced such concessions 
to natural weakness to a minimum, not only when 
Lady Queenborough was by, but at all times. To 
say truth, we had no desire to see our scalps affixed 
to Miss Trix’s pretty belt, nor to have our hearts 
broken (like that of the young man in the poem) 
before she went to Homburg in the autumn. 

With the Curate it was otherwise. He — Jack 
Ives, by the way, was his name — appeared to rush, 
not only upon his fate, but in the face of all possi- 
bility and of Lady Queenborough. My cousin and 
hostess, Dora Polton, was very much distressed 
about him. She said that he was such a nice young 
fellow, and that it was a great pity to see him pre- 
paring such unhappiness for himself. Nay, I hap- 
pen to know that she spoke very seriously to Trix, 
pointing out the wickedness of triffing with him ; 
whereupon Trix, who maintained a bowing ac- 
quaintance with her conscience, avoided him for a 
whole afternoon, and endangered all Algy Stan- 
ton’s prudent resolutions by taking him out in the 
Canadian canoe. This demonstration in no way 
perturbed the Curate. He observed that, as there 
w^as nothing better to do, we might as well play 
billiards, and proceeded to defeat me in three games 
of a hundred up (no, it is quite immaterial whether 
228 


THE CURATE OF POLTONS 


we played for anything or not) ; after which he told 
Dora that the Vicar was taking the evening service 
— it happened to be the day when there was one at 
the parish church — a piece of information only rel- 
evant in so far as it suggested that Mr. Ives could 
accept an invitation to dinner if one were proffered 
to him. Dora, very weakly, rose to the bait ; Jack 
Ives, airily remarking that there was no use in 
ceremony among friends, seized the place next to 
Trix at dinner (her mother was just opposite) and 
walked on the terrace after dinner with her in the 
moonlight. When the ladies retired he came into 
the smoking-room, drank a whisky-and-soda, said 
that Miss Queenborough was really a very charm- 
ing companion, and apologised for leaving us early 
on the ground that his sermon was still unwritten. 
My good cousin, the Squire, suggested rather 
grimly that a discourse on the vanity of human 
wishes might be appropriate. 

‘‘ I shall preach,” said Mr. Ives thoughtfully, ‘‘ on 
the opportunities of wealth.” 

This resolution he carried out on the next day 
but one, that being a Sunday. I had the pleasure 
of sitting next to Miss Trix, and I watched her 
with some interest as Mr. Ives developed his theme. 
I will not try to reproduce the sermon, which would 
have seemed by no means a bad one, had any of 
our party been able to ignore the personal applica- 
tion which we read into it : for its main burden was 
no other than this — that wealth should be used by 
those who were fortunate enough to possess it 
229 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


(here Trix looked down and fidgeted with her 
Prayer-book) as a means of promoting greater 
union between themselves and the less richly en- 
dowed, and not — as, alas ! had too often been the 
case — as though it were a new barrier set up be- 
tween them and their fellow- creatures. (Here Miss 
Trix blushed slightly and had recourse to her smell- 
ing-bottle.) “You,” said the Curate, waxing rhe- 
torical as he addressed an imaginary, but bloated, 
capitalist, “ have no more right to your money than 
I have. It is entrusted to you to be shared with 
me.” At this point I heard Lady Queenborough 
sniff, and Algy Stanton snigger. I stole a glance 
at Trix and detected a slight waver in the admira- 
ble fines of her mouth. 

“ A very good sermon, didn’t you think ? ” I said 
to her, as we walked home. 

“ Oh, very,” she replied demurely. 

“ Ah, if we followed all we heard in church ! ” I 
sighed. 

Miss Trix walked in silence for a few yards. By 
dint of never becoming anything else, we had be- 
come very good friends ; and presently she re- 
marked, quite confidentially, 

“ He’s very silly, isn’t he ? ” 

“ Then you ought to snub him,” said I severely. 

“So I do — sometimes. He’s rather amusing, 
though.” 

“ Of course, if you’re prepared to make the sac- 
rifice involved ” 

“ Oh, what nonsense ! ” 

230 


THE CURATE OF POLTONS 


“Then you’ve no business to amuse yourself 
with him.” 

“ Dear, dear ! how moral you are ! ” said Trix. 

The next development in the situation was this : 
My cousin Dora received a letter from the Marquis 
of Newhaven, with whom she was acquainted, 
praying her to allow him to run down to Poltons 
for a few days ; he reminded her that she had once 
given him a general invitation : if it would not be 
inconvenient — and so forth. The meaning of this 
communication did not, of course, escape my cousin, 
who had witnessed the writer’s attentions to Trix 
in the preceding season ; nor did it escape the rest 
of us (who had talked over the said attentions at 
the club) when she told us about it, and announced 
that Lord Newhaven would arrive in the middle 
of the next day. Trix affected dense unconscious- 
ness; her mother allowed herself a mysterious 
smile — which, however, speedily vanished when the 
Curate (he was taking lunch with us) observed in a 
cheerful tone : 

‘‘Newhaven? Oh, I remember the chap at the 
House — ploughed twice in Smalls — stumpy fellow, 
isn’t he? Not a bad chap, though, you know, bar- 
ring his looks. I’m glad he’s coming.” 

“ You won’t be soon, young man,” Lady Queen- 
borough’s angry eye seemed to say. 

“ I remember him,” pursued Jack, “ awfully smit- 
ten with a tobacconist’s daughter in the Corn — oh, 
it’s all right, Lady Queenborough — she wouldn’t 
look at him.” 


231 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


This quasi-apology was called forth by the fact 
of Lady Queenborough pushing back her chair 
and making for the door. It did not at all appease 
her to hear of the scorn of the tobacconist’s daugh- 
ter. She glared sternly at Jack, and disappeared. 
He turned to Trix and reminded her — without 
diffidence and coram populo, as his habit was — 
that she had promised him a stroll in the west 
wood. 

What happened on that stroll I do not know ; 
but meeting Miss Trix on the stairs later in the 
afternoon, I ventured to remark, 

“I hope you broke it to him gently, Miss 
Queenborough ? ” 

‘‘I don’t know what you mean,” replied Trix 
haughtily. 

“ You were out nearly two hours,” said I. 

“ Were we ? ” asked Trix with a start. “ Good 
gracious ! Where was mamma, Mr. Wynne ? ” 

‘‘ On the lawn — watch in hand.” 

Miss Trix went slowly upstairs, and there is not 
the least doubt that something serious passed be- 
tween her and her mother, for both of them were 
in the most atrocious of humours that evening; 
fortunately the Curate was not there. He had a 
Bible-class. 

The next day Lord Newhaven arrived. I found 
him on the lawn when I strolled out, after a spell 
of letter- writing, about four o’clock. Lawn tennis 
was the order of the day, and we were all in flan- 
nels. 


232 


THE CURATE OF POLTONS 


Oh, here’s Mark,” cried Dora, seeing me. 
“ Now, Mark, you and Mr. Ives had better play 
against Trix and Lord Newhaven. That’ll make 
a very good set.” 

“ No, no, Mrs. Polton,” said Jack Ives. “ They 
wouldn’t have a chance. Look here. I’ll play 
with Miss Queenborough against Lord Newhaven 
and Wynne.” 

Newhaven — whose appearance, by the way, 
though hardly distinguished, was not quite so un- 
ornamental as the Curate had led us to expect — 
looked slightly displeased, but Jack gave him no 
time for remonstrance. He whisked Trix off, and 
began to serve all in a moment. I had a vision of 
Lady Queenborough approaching from the house 
with face aghast. The set went on ; and, owing 
entirely to Newhaven’s absurd chivalry in sending 
all the balls to Jack Ives instead of following the 
well-known maxim to ‘‘ pound away at the lady,” 
they beat us. Jack wiped his brow, strolled up to 
the tea-table with Trix, and remarked in exultant 
tones. 

We make a perfect couple. Miss Queenbor- 
ough; we ought never to be separated.” 

Dora did not ask the Curate to dinner that 
night, but he dropped in about nine o’clock to ask 
her opinion as to the hymns on Sunday ; and find- 
ing Miss Trix and Newhaven in the small drawing- 
room, he sat down and talked to them. This 
was too much for Trix ; she had treated him very 
kindly, and had allowed him to amuse her; but it 
25 233 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


was impossible to put up with presumption of that 
kind. Difficult as it was to discourage Mr. Ives, 
she did it, and he went away with a disconsolate 
puzzled expression. At the last moment, however, 
Trix so far relented as to express a hope that he 
was coming to tennis to-morrow, at which he 
brightened up a little. I do not wish to be un- 
charitable — least of all to a charming young lady — 
but my opinion is that Miss Trix did not wish to 
set the Curate altogether adrift. I think, however, 
that Lady Queenborough must have spoken again ; 
for when Jack did come to tennis, Trix treated 
him with the most freezing civility and a hardly 
disguised disdain, and devoted herself to Lord 
Newhaven with as much assiduity as her mother 
could wish. We men, over our pipes, expressed 
the opinion that Jack Ives’s little hour of sunshine 
was past, and that nothing was left to us but to 
look on at the prosperous uneventful course of 
Lord Newhaven’s wooing. Trix had had her fun 
(so Algy Stanton bluntly phrased it) and would 
now settle down to business. 

‘‘ I believe, though,” he added, “that she likes 
the Curate a bit, you know.” 

During the whole of the next day — Wednesday 
— Jack Ives kept away ; he had, apparently, ac- 
cepted the inevitable, and was healing his wounded 
heart by a strict attention to his parochial duties. 
Newhaven remarked on his absence with an air of 
relief ; and Miss Trix treated it as a matter of no 
importance ; Lady Queenborough was all smiles ; 

234 


THE CURATE OF POLTONS 

and Dora Polton restricted herself to exclaiming, 
as I sat by her at tea, in a low tone and a propos 
to nothing in particular, ‘‘Oh, well, — poor Mr. 
Ives ! ” 

But on Thursday there occurred an event, the 
significance of which passed at the moment un- 
perceived, but which had in fact most important 
results. This was no other than the arrival of little 
Mrs. Wentworth, an intimate friend of Dora’s. 
Mrs. Wentworth had been left a widow early in 
life ; she possessed a comfortable competence ; she 
was not handsome, but she was vivacious, amus- 
ing, and, above all, sympathetic. She sympathised 
at once with Lady Queenborough in her maternal 
anxieties, with Trix on her charming romance, 
with Newhaven on his sweet devotedness, with the 
rest of us on our obvious desolation — and, after a 
confidential chat with Dora, she sympathised most 
strongly with poor Mr. Ives on his unfortunate at- 
tachment. Nothing would satisfy her, so Dora 
told me, except the opportunity of plying Mr. Ives 
with her soothing balm ; and Dora was about to 
sit down and write him a note, when he strolled in 
through the drawing-room window, and announced 
that his cook’s mother was ill, and that he should 
be very much obliged if Mrs. Polton would give 
him some dinner that evening. Trix and New- 
haven happened to enter by the door at the same 
moment, and Jack darted up to them, and shook 
hands with the greatest efiusion. He had evident- 
ly buried all unkindness — and with it, we hoped, 
235 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


his mistaken folly. However that might be, he 
made no effort to engross Trix, but took his seat 
most docilely by his hostess; and she, of course, 
introduced him to Mrs. Wentworth. His behav- 
iour was, in fact, so exemplary, that even Lady 
Queenborough relaxed her severity, and conde- 
scended to cross-examine him on the morals and 
manners of the old women of the parish. “ Oh, 
the Vicar looks after them,” said Jack; and he 
turned to Mrs. Wentworth again. 

There can be no doubt that Mrs. Wentworth 
had a remarkable power of sympathy. I took her 
in to dinner, and she was deep in the subject of my 
“noble and inspiring art,” before the soup was off 
the table. Indeed I’m sure that my life’s ambi- 
tions would have been an open book to her by the 
time that the joint arrived, had not Jack Ives, 
who was sitting on the lady’s other side, cut into 
the conversation just as Mrs. Wentworth was com- 
paring my early struggles with those of Mr. Car- 
lyle. After this intervention of Jack’s I had not a 
chance. I ate my dinner without the sauce of 
sympathy, substituting for it a certain amusement 
which I derived from studying the face of Miss 
Trix Queenborough, who was placed on the op- 
posite side of the table. And if Trix did look now 
and again at Mrs. Wentworth and Jack Ives, I 
cannot say that her conduct was unnatural. To 
tell the truth. Jack was so obviously delighted with 
his new friend that it was quite pleasant — and, as 
I say, under the circumstances, rather amusing — 
236 


THE CURATE OF POLTONS 

to watch them. W^e felt that the Squire was jus- 
tified in having a hit at Jack when Jack said, in 
the smoking-room, that he found himself rather at 
a loss for a subject for his next sermon. 

“ What do you say,” suggested my cousin, puff- 
ing at his pipe, ‘‘to taking constancy as your 
text?” 

J ack considered the idea for a moment, but then 
he shook his head. 

“No. I think,” he said reflectively, “that I 
shall preach on the power of sympathy.” 

That sermon afforded me — I must confess it, at 
the risk of seeming frivolous — very great entertain- 
ment. Again I secured a place by Miss Trix — on 
her left, Newhaven being on her right ; and her 
face was worth study when Jack Ives gave us a 
most eloquent description of the wonderful gift in 
question. It was, he said, the essence and the 
crown of true womanliness, and it showed itself— 
well, to put it quite plainly, it showed itself, ac- 
cording to Jack Ives, in exactly that sort of manner 
and bearing which so honourably and gracefully 
distinguished Mrs. Wentworth. The lady was not, 
of course, named, but she was clearly indicated. 
“ Your gift, your precious gift,” cried the Curate, 
apostrophising the impersonation of sympathy, “ is 
given to you, not for your profit, but for mine. It 
is yours, but it is a trust to be used for me. It is 
yours, in fact, to share with me.” At this chmax, 
which must have struck upon her ear with a certain 
familiarity. Miss Trix Queenborough, notwithstand- 
237 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


ing the place and occasion, tossed her pretty head 
and whispered to me, “ What horrid stuff! ” 

In the ensuing week Jack Ives was our constant 
companion; the continued illness of his servant’s 
mother left him stranded, and Dora’s kind heart at 
once offered him the hospitality of her roof. For 
my part I was glad, for the little drama which now 
began was not without its interest. It was a pleas- 
ant change to see Jack genially polite to Trix 
Queenborough, but quite indifferent to her pres- 
ence or absence, and content to allow her to take 
Newhaven for her partner at tennis as often as she 
pleased. He himself was often an absentee from 
our games. Mrs. Wentworth did not play, and 
Jack would sit under the trees with her, or take her 
out in the canoe. What Trix thought I did not 
know, but it is a fact that she treated poor New- 
haven like dirt beneath her feet, and that Lady 
Queenborough’s face began to lose its transiently 
pleasant expression. I had a vague idea that a retri- 
bution was working itself out, and disposed myself 
to see the process with all the complacency induced 
by the spectacle of others receiving punishment for 
their sins. 

A little scene which occurred after lunch one day 
was significant. I was sitting on the terrace, ready 
booted and breeched, waiting for my horse to be 
brought round. Trix came out and sat down by 
me. 

“Where’s Newhaven ? ” I asked. 

“ Oh, I don’t always want Lord Newhaven,” she 
238 


THE CURATE OF POLTONS 


exclaimed petulantly ; “ I sent him off for a walk. 
I’m going out in the Canadian canoe with Mr, 
Ives.” 

Oh, you are, are you ? ” said I, smiling. 

As I spoke. Jack Ives ran up to us. 

“Isay, Miss Queenborough,” he cried, “IVe 
just got your message saying you’d let me take you 
on the lake.” 

“ Is it a great bore ? ” asked Trix, with a glance 
— a glance that meant mischief. 

“ I should like it awfully, of course,” said Jack ; 
“ but the fact is I’ve promised to take Mrs. Went- 
worth — before I got your message, you know.” 

Trix drew herself up. 

“ Of course, if Mrs. Wentworth — ” she began. 

“ I’m very sorry,” said Jack. 

Then Miss Queenborough, forgetting — as I hope 
— or choosing to disregard my presence, leant for- 
ward and asked in her most coaxing tones, 

“Don’t you ever forget a promise, Mr. Ives ? ” 

Jack looked at her. I suppose her dainty pretti- 
ness struck him afresh, for he wavered and hesi- 
tated. 

“ She’s gone upstairs,” pursued the tempter, 
“ and we shall be safe away before she comes down 
again.” 

Jack shuffled with one foot on the gravel. 

“ I tell you what,” he said. “ I’ll ask her if 
she minds me taking you for a little while before 
I ” 

I believe he really thought that he had hit upon 
239 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


a compromise satisfactory to all parties. If so, he 
was speedily undeceived. Trix flushed red and 
answered angrily, 

“ Pray don’t trouble. I don’t want to go.” 

“ Perhaps afterward you might — ” suggested 
the Curate, but now rather timidly. 

“ I’m going out with Lord Newhaven,” said she. 
And she added in an access of uncontrollable an- 
noyance, ‘‘ Go, please go. I don’t want you.” 

Jack sheered off, with a look of puzzled shame- 
facedness. He disappeared into the house. Noth- 
ing passed between Miss Trix and myself. A mo- 
ment later Newhaven came out. 

“Why, Miss Queenborough,” said he, in appar- 
ent surprise, “ Ives is going with Mrs. Wentworth 
in the canoe ! ” 

In an instant I saw what she had done. In rash 
presumption she had told Newhaven that she was 
going with the Curate; and now the Curate had 
refused to take her; and Newhaven had met him 
in search of Mrs. Wentworth. What could she 
do ? ell, she rose — or fell — to the occasion. In 
the coldest of voices she said, 

“I thought you’d gone for your walk.” 

“ I was just starting,” he answered apologetically, 
“when I met Ives. But, as you weren’t going 
with him — ” He paused, an inquiring look in his 
eyes. He was evidently asking himself why she 
had not gone with the Curate. 

“ I’d rather be left alone, if you don’t mind,” said 
she. And then, flushing red again, she added, “ I 
240 


THE CURATE OF POLTONS 


changed my mind and refused to go with Mr. Ives. 
So he went off to get Mrs. Wentworth instead.” 

I started. Newhaven looked at her for an in- 
stant, and then turned on his heel. She turned to 
me, quick as lightning, and with her face all aflame, 

“ If you teU, I’ll never speak to you again,” she 
whispered. 

After this there was a silence for some minutes. 

Well? ” she said, without looking at me. 

I have no remark to offer. Miss Queenbor- 
ough,” I returned. 

“ I suppose that was a lie, wasn’t it? ” she asked 
defiantly. 

“ It’s not my business to say what it was,” was 
my disereet answer. 

“ I know what you’re thinking.” 

“ I was thinking,” said I, “ which I would rather 
be — the man you will marry, or the man you would 
like ” 

“How dare you? It’s not true. Oh, Mr. 
Wynne, indeed it’s not true ! ” 

Whether it were true or not I did not know. 
But if it had been. Miss Trix Queenborough might 
have been expected to act very much in the way in 
which she proceeded to act : that is to say, to be 
extravagantly attentive to Lord Newhaven when 
Jack Ives was present, and markedly neglectful of 
him in the Curate’s absence. It also fitted in very 
well with the theory which I had ventured to hint, 
that her bearing towards Mrs. Wentworth was dis- 
tinguished by a stately civility, and her remarks 
241 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


about that lady by a superfluity of laudation ; for 
if these be not two distinguishing marks of rivalry 
in the well-bred, I must go back to my favourite 
books and learn from them — more folly. And if 
Trix s manners were all that they should be, praise 
no less high must be accorded to Mrs. Went- 
worth’s ; she attained an altitude of admirable un- 
consciousness, and conducted her flirtation (the 
poverty of language forces me to the word, but it 
is over-flippant) with the Curate in a staid, quasi- 
maternal way. She called him a delightful boy, 
and said that she was intensely interested in all his 
aims and hopes. 

“ What does she want ? ” I asked Dora despair- 
ingly. “She can’t want to marry him.” I was 
referring to Trix Queenborough, not to Mrs. 
W entworth. 

“ Good gracious, no ! ” answered Dora irritably. 
‘‘ It’s simple jealousy. She won’t let the poor boy 
alone till he’s in love with her again. It’s a horri- 
ble shame ! ” 

‘‘Oh, well, he has great recuperative power,” 
said I. 

“She’d better be careful, though. It’s a very 
dangerous game. How do you suppose Lord 
Newhaven likes it ? ” 

Accident gave me that very day a hint how little 
Lord Newhaven liked it, and a glimpse of the risk 
Miss Trix was running. Entering the library sud- 
denly, I heard Newhaven’s voice raised above his 
ordinary tones. 


242 


THE CURATE OF POLTONS 


“ I won’t stand it,” he was declaring. “ I never 
know how she’ll treat me from one minute to the 
next.” 

My entrance, of course, stopped the conversation 
very abruptly. Newhaven had come to a stand in 
the middle of the room, and Lady Queenborough 
sat on the sofa, a formidable frown on her brow. 
Withdrawing myself as rapidly as possible, I argued 
the probability of a severe lecture for Miss Trix, 
ending in a command to try her noble suitor’s pa- 
tience no longer. I hope all this happened, for I, 
not seeing why Mrs. Wentworth should monopo- 
lise the grace of sympathy, took the liberty of ex- 
tending mine to Newhaven. He was certainly in 
love with Trix, not with her money, and the treat- 
ment he underwent must have been as trying to 
his feelings as it was galling to his pride. 

My sympathy was not premature, for Miss 
Trix’s fascinations, which were indubitably great, 
began to have their effect. The scene about the 
canoe was re-enacted, but with a different denoii^ 
merit. This time the promise was forgotten, and 
the widow forsaken. Then Mrs. Wentworth put 
on her armour. We had, in fact, reached this very 
absurd situation, that these two ladies were con- 
tending for the favours of, or the domination over, 
such an obscure, poverty-stricken, hopelessly inel- 
igible person as the Curate of Poltons undoubtedly 
was. The position seemed to me then, and still 
seems, to indicate some remarkable qualities in that 
young man. 


243 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


At last Newhaven made a move. At breakfast, 
on Wednesday morning, he announced that, re- 
luctant as he should be to leave Poltons Park, he 
was due at his aunt’s place, in Kent, on Saturday 
evening, and must therefore make his arrangements 
to leave by noon on that day. The significance 
was apparent. Had he come down to breakfast 
with “Now or Never!” stamped in fiery letters 
across his brow, it would have been more obtrusive 
indeed, but not a whit plainer. We all looked 
down at our plates, except Jack Ives. He fiung 
one glance (I saw it out of the corner of my left 
eye) at Newhaven, another at Trix; then he re- 
marked kindly, 

“We shall be uncommonly sorry to lose you, 
Newhaven.” 

Events began to happen now, and I will tell 
them as well as I am able, supplementing my own 
knowledge by what I learnt afterward from Dora 
— she having learnt it from the actors in the scene. 
In spite of the solemn warning conveyed in New- 
haven’s intimation, Trix, greatly daring, went off 
immediately after lunch for what she described as 
“ a long ramble ” with Mr. Ives. There was, in- 
deed, the excuse of an old woman at the end of the 
ramble, and Trix provided Jack with a small basket 
of comforts for the useful old body; but the ram- 
ble was, we felt, the thing, and I was much an- 
noyed at not being able to accompany the walkers 
in the cloak of darkness or other invisible contriv- 
ance. The ramble consumed three hours — full 

244 


THE CURATE OF POLTONS 


measure. Indeed, it was half-past six before Trix, 
alone, walked up the drive. Newhaven, a solitary 
figure, paced up and down the terrace fronting the 
drive. Trix came on, her head thrown back and a 
steady smile on her lips. She saw Newhaven; he 
stood looking at her for a moment with what she 
afterward described as an indescribable smile on 
his face, but not, as Dora understood from her, by 
any means a pleasant one. Yet, if not pleasant, 
there is not the least doubt in the world that it 
was highly significant ; for she cried out ner- 
vously, 

«« Why are you looking at me like that ? What’s 
the matter ? ” 

Newhaven, still saying nothing, turned his back 
on her and made as if he would walk into the 
house and leave her there, ignored, discarded, done 
with. She, realising the crisis which had come, for- 
getting everything except the imminent danger of 
losing him once for all, without time for long ex- 
planation or any roundabout seductions, ran for- 
ward, laying her hand on his arm, and blurting 
out, 

“ But I’ve refused him.” 

I do not know what Newhaven thinks now, but 
I sometimes doubt whether he would not have 
been wiser to shake off the detaining hand and 
pursue his lonely way, first into the house, and ul- 
timately to his aunt’s. But (to say nothing of the 
twenty thousand a year, which, after all, and be 
you as romantic as you may please to be, is not a 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


thing to be sneezed at) Trix’s face, its mingled 
eagerness and shame, its flushed cheeks and shin- 
ing eyes, the piquancy of its unwonted humility, 
overcame him. He stopped dead. 

‘‘ I — I was obliged to give him an — an oppor- 
tunity,” said Miss Trix, having the grace to stum- 
ble a little in her speech. “ And — and it’s all your 
fault.” 

The war was thus, by happy audacity, carried 
into Newhaven’s own quarters. 

“ My fault! ” he exclaimed. “ My fault that you 
walk all day with that Curate ! ” 

Then Miss Trix — and let no irrelevant consider- 
ations mar the appreciation of fine acting — dropped 
her eyes and murmured softly, 

“ I — I was so terribly afraid of seeming to expect 
you"' 

Wherewith she (and not he) ran away, lightly, 
up the stairs, turning just one glance downward as 
she reached the landing. Newhaven was looking 
up from below with an ‘‘enchanted” smile — the 
word is Trix’s own : I should probably have used 
a different one. 

Was then the Curate of Poltons utterly defeated 
—brought to his knees, only to be spurned ? It 
seemed so : and he came down to dinner that night 
with a subdued and melancholy expression. Trix, 
on the other hand, was brilliant and talkative to 
the last degree, and the gaiety spread from her all 
round the table, leaving untouched only the re- 
jected lover and Mrs. Wentworth; for the last- 
246 


THE CURATE OF POLTONS 


named lady, true to her distinguishing quality, had 
begun to talk to poor Jack Ives in low soothing 
tones. 

After dinner Trix was not visible ; but the door 
of the little boudoir beyond stood half open, and 
very soon Newhaven edged his way through. Al- 
most at the same moment Jack Ives and Mrs. 
Wentworth passed out of the window and began 
to walk up and down the gravel. Nobody but my- 
self appeared to notice these remarkable occur- 
rences, but I watched them with keen interest. 
Half an hour passed, and then there smote on my 
watchful ear the sound of a low laugh from the 
boudoir. It was followed almost immediately by 
a stranger sound from the gravel walk. Then, all 
in a moment, two things happened. The boudoir 
door opened, and Trix, followed by Newhaven, 
came in smiling; from the window entered Jack 
Ives and Mrs. Wentworth. My eyes were on the 
Curate. He gave one sudden comprehending 
glance towards the other couple; then he took the 
widow’s hand, led her up to Dora, and said, in low 
yet penetrating tones, 

“ Will you wish us joy, Mrs. Polton ? ” 

The Squire, Rippleby, and Algy Stanton were 
round them in an instant. I kept my place, watch- 
ing now the face of Trix Queenborough. She 
turned first flaming red, then very pale. I saw her 
turn to Newhaven and speak one or two urgent 
imperative words to him. Then, drawing herself 
up to her full height, she crossed the room to where 
247 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


the group was assembled round Mrs. Wentworth 
and Jack Ives. 

“What’s the matter? What are you saying?” 
she asked. 

Mrs. Wentworth’s eyes were modestly cast 
down, but a smile played round her mouth. No 
one spoke for a moment. Then Jack Ives said, 

“ Mrs. Wentworth has promised to be my wife, 
Miss Queenborough.” 

For a moment, hardly perceptible, Trix hesitated ; 
then, with the most winning, touching, sweetest 
smile in the world, she said, 

“ So you took my advice, and our afternoon walk 
was not wasted after all ! ” 

Mrs. Polton is not used to these fine flights of 
diplomacy ; she had heard before dinner something 
(not all) of what had actually happened in the after- 
noon ; and the simple woman positively jumped. 
Jack Ives met Trix’s scornful eyes full and square. 

“ Not at all wasted,” said he, with a smile. “ Not 
only has it shown me where my true happiness lies, 
but it has also given me a juster idea of the value 
and sincerity of your regard for me. Miss Queen- 
borough.” 

“ It is as real, Mr. Ives, as it is sincere,” said she. 

“It is like yourself. Miss Queenborough,” said 
he, with a low bow ; and he turned from her and 
began to talk to hh fiancee, 

Trix Queenborough moved slowly towards where 
I sat. Newhaven was watching her from where 
he stood alone on the other side of the room. 

248 


THE CURATE OF POLTONS 


“ And have you no news for us? ” I asked in low 
tones. 

“ Thank you,” she said haughtily; “ I don’t care 
that mine should be a pendant to the great tidings 
about the little widow and the Curate.” 

After a moment’s pause she went on : 

“ He lost no time, did he? He was wise to se- 
cure her before what happened this afternoon could 
leak out. Nobody can tell her now.” 

‘‘ This afternoon ? ” 

“ He asked me to marry him this afternoon.” 

‘‘ And you refused? ” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, his behaviour is in outrageously bad 
taste, but ” 

She laid a hand on my arm, and said in calm 
level tones, 

“ I refused him because I dared not have him ; 
but I told him I cared for him, and he said he 
loved me. And I let him kiss me. Good-night, 
Mr. Wynne.” 

I sat still and silent. Newhaven came across to 
us. Trix put out her hand and caught him by the 
sleeve. 

“ Fred,” she said, “ my dear honest old Fred, you 
love me, don’t you ? ” 

Newhaven, much embarrassed and surprised, 
looked at me in alarm. But her hand was in his 
now, and her eyes implored him. 

“ I should rather think I did, my dear,” said he. 

I really hope that Lord and Lady Newhaven 
26 249 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


will not be very unhappy, while Mrs. Ives quite 
worships her husband, and is convinced that she 
eclipsed the brilliant and wealthy Miss Queen- 
borough. Perhaps she did — perhaps not. There 
are, as I have said, great qualities in the Curate of 
Poltons, but I have not quite made up my mind 
precisely what they are. I ought, however, to say 
that Dora takes a more favourable view of him and 
a less lenient view of Trix than I. That is perhaps 
natural. Besides, Dora does not know the precise 
manner in which the Curate was refused. By the 
way, he preached next Sunday on the text, “ The 
children of this world are wiser in their generation 
than the children of light.” 


250 


A THREE-VOLUME NOVEL 


It was, I believe, mainly as a compliment to me 
that Miss Audrey Liston was asked to Poltons. 
Miss Liston and I were very good friends, and my 
cousin Dora Polton thought, as she informed me, 
that it would be nice for me to have some one 
I could talk to about “ books, and so on.” I did 
not complain. Miss Liston was a pleasant young 
woman of six and twenty ; I liked her very much 
except on paper, and I was aware that she made it 
a point of duty to read something at least of what 
I wrote. She was in the habit of describing her- 
self as an ‘‘ authoress in a small way.” If it were 
pointed out that six three- volume novels in three 
years (the term of her literary activity, at the time 
of which I write) could hardly be called a small 
way,” she would smile modestly and say that it 
was not really much ; and if she were told that the 
English language embraced no such word as 
“ authoress,” she would smile again and say that it 
ought to — a position towards the bugbear of cor- 
rectness with which, I confess, I sympathise in some 
degree. She was very diligent; she worked from 
ten to one every day while she was at Poltons; 
how much she wrote is between her and her con- 
science. 

There was another impeachment which Miss 
251 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


Liston was hardly at the trouble to deny. “ Take 
my characters from life ? ” she would exclaim. 
“ Surely every artist ” (Miss Liston often referred 
to herself as an artist) “ must ? ” And she would 
proceed to maintain — what is perhaps true some- 
times — that people rather like being put into books, 
just as they like being photographed, for all that 
they grumble and pretend to be afflicted when 
either process is levied against them. In discussing 
this matter with Miss Liston I felt myself on deli- 
cate ground, for it was notorious that I figured in her 
first book in the guise of a misogynistic genius. The 
fact that she lengthened (and thickened) my hair, 
converted it from an indeterminate brown to a 
dusky black, gave me a drooping moustache, and 
invested my very ordinary work-a-day eyes with a 
strange magnetic attraction, availed nothing; I was 
at once recognised, and, I may remark in passing, 
an uncommonly disagreeable fellow she made me. 
Thus I had passed through the fire. I felt tolerably 
sure that I presented no other aspect of interest, 
real or supposed, and I was quite content that Miss 
Liston should serve all the rest of her acquaintance 
as she had served me. I reckoned they would last 
her, at the present rate of production, about five 
years. 

Fate was kind to Miss Liston and provided her 
with most suitable patterns for her next piece of 
work at Poltons itself. There were a young man 
and a young woman staying in the house— Sir 
Gilbert Chillington and Miss Pamela Myles. The 

252 


A THREE- VOLUME NOVEL 


moment Miss Liston was apprised of a possible 
romance, she began the study of the protagonists. 
She was looking out, she told me, for some new 
types (if it were any consolation — and there is a 
sort of dignity about it — to be called a type. Miss 
Liston’s victims were always welcome to so much), 
and she had found them in Chillington and Pamela. 
The former appeared to my dull eye to offer no 
salient novelty; he was tall, broad, handsome, and 
he possessed a manner of enviable placidity. 
Pamela, I allowed, was exactly the heroine Miss 
Liston loved — haughty, capricious, difficile, but 
sound and true at heart. (I was mentally skim- 
ming Volume I.) Miss Liston agreed with me in 
my conception of Pamela, but declared that I did 
not do justice to the artistic possibilities latent in 
Chillington; he had a curious attraction which it 
would tax her skill (so she gravely informed me) to 
the utmost to reproduce. She proposed that I also 
should make a study of him, and attributed my 
hurried refusal to a shrinking from the difficulties 
of the task. 

“ Of course,” she observed, looking at our young 
friends, who were talking nonsense at the other 
side of the lawn, ‘‘they must have a misunder- 
standing.” 

“Why, of course,” said I, lighting my pipe. 
“ What should you say to another man ? ” 

“ Or another woman ? ” said Miss Liston. 

“It comes to the same thing,” said I. (About 
a volume and a half, I meant.) 

253 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“ But it’s more interesting. Do you think she’d 
better be a married woman ? ” And Miss Liston 
looked at me inquiringly. 

“ The age prefers them married,” I remarked. 

This conversation happened on the second day 
of Miss Liston’s visit, and she lost no time in 
beginning to study her subjects. Pamela, she said, 
she found pretty plain sailing, but Chillington 
continued to puzzle her. Again, she could not 
make up her mind whether to have a happy or a 
tragic ending. In the interests of a tender-hearted 
public, I pleaded for marriage-bells. 

“Yes, I think so,” said Miss Liston, but she 
sighed, and I think she had an idea or two for a 
heart-broken separation, followed by mutual, life- 
long, hopeless devotion. 

The complexity of young Sir Gilbert did not, 
in Miss Liston’s opinion, appear less on further 
acquaintance; and indeed, I must admit that she 
was not altogether wrong in considering him 
worthy of attention. As I came to know him 
better, I discerned in him a smothered self-appre- 
ciation, which came to light in response to the 
least tribute of interest or admiration, but was yet 
far remote from the aggressiveness of a common- 
place vanity. In a moment of indiscretion I had 
chaffed him — he was very good-natured — on the 
risks he ran at Miss Liston’s hands. He was not 
disgusted, but neither did he plume himself or 
spread his feathers. He received the suggestion 
without surprise and without any attempt at dis- 


A THREE-VOLUME NOVEL 


claiming fitness for the purpose ; but he received it 
as a matter which entailed a responsibility on him. 
I detected the conviction that, if the portrait were 
to be painted, it was due to the world that it 
should be well painted ; the subject must give the 
artist full opportunities. 

“ What does she know about me? ” he asked in 
meditative tones. 

“ She’s very quick ; she’ll soon pick up as much 
as she wants,” I assured him. 

“ She’ll probably go all wrong,” he said sombrely ; 
and of course I could not tell him that it was of no 
consequence if she did. He would not have be- 
lieved me, and would have done precisely what he 
proceeded to do, and that was to afford Miss Lis- 
ton every chance of appraising his character and 
plumbing the depths of his soul. I may say at 
once that I did not regret this course of action; 
for the effect of it was to allow me a chance of 
talking to Pamela Myles, and Pamela was exactly 
the sort of girl to beguile the long pleasant morn- 
ing hours of a holiday in the country. No one had 
told Pamela that she was going to be put in a 
book, and I don’t think it would have made any 
difference had she been told. Pamela’s attitude 
towards books was one of healthy scorn, confi- 
dently based on admitted ignorance. So we never 
spoke of them, and my cousin Dora condoled with 
me more than once on the way in which Miss I^is- 
ton, false to the implied terms of her invitation, 
deserted me in favour of Sir Gilbert, and left me 
255 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


to the mercies of a frivolous girl. Pamela appeared 
to be as little aggrieved as I was. I imagined that 
she supposed that Chillington would ask her to 
marry him some day before very long, and I was sure 
she would accept him ; but it was quite plain that, 
if Miss Liston persisted in making Pamela her 
heroine, she would have to supply from her own 
resources a large supplement of passion. Pamela 
was far too deficient in the commodity to be made 
anything of, without such reinforcement, even by 
an art more adept at making much out of nothing 
than Miss Liston’s straightforward method could 
claim to be. 

A week passed, and then, one Friday morning, 
a new light burst on me. Miss Liston came into 
the garden at eleven o’clock and sat down by me 
on the lawn. Chillington and Pamela had gone 
riding with the Squire, Dora was visiting the poor. 
We were alone. The appearance of Miss Liston 
at this hour (usually sacred to the use of the pen), 
no less than her puzzled look, told me that an ob- 
struction had occurred in the novel. Presently she 
let me know what it was. 

“I’m thinking of altering the scheme of my 
story, Mr. Wynne,” said she. “Have you ever 
noticed how sometimes a man thinks he’s in love 
when he isn’t really ? ” 

“ Such a case sometimes occurs,” I acknowl- 
edged. 

“Yes, and he doesn’t find out his mistake ” 

“ Till they’re married ? ” 

256 


A THREE-VOLUME NOVEL 


“ Sometimes, yes,” she said, rather as though she 
were making an unwilling admission. “ But some- 
times he sees it before ; when he meets somebody 
else.” 

‘‘ Very true,” said I with a grave nod. 

“ The false can’t stand against the real,” pursued 
Miss Liston; and then she fell into meditative 
silence. I stole a glance at her face; she was 
smiling. Was it in the pleasure of literary crea- 
tion — an artistic ecstasy? I should have liked to 
answer yes, but I doubted it very much. With- 
out pretending to Miss Liston’s powers, I have the 
little subtlety that is needful to show me that more 
than one kind of smile may be seen on the human 
face, and that there is one very different from 
others ; and, finally, that that one is not evoked, 
as a rule, merely by the evolution of the trouble- 
some encumbrance to pretty writing, vulgarly 
called a “ plot.” 

‘‘If,” pursued Miss Liston, “some one comes 
who can appreciate him and draw out what is best 
in him ” 

“ That’s all very well,” said I ; “ but what of the 
first girl? ” 

“ Oh, she’s — she can be made shallow, you know ; 
and I can put in a man for her. People needn’t be 
much interested in her.” 

“Yes, you could manage it that way,” said I, 
thinking how Pamela — I took the liberty of using 
her name for the shallow girl — would like such 
treatment. 


257 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“ She will really be valuable mainly as a foil,” 
observed Miss Liston ; and she added generously, 
‘‘ I shall make her nice, you know, but shallow — 
not worthy of him.” 

‘‘And what are you going to make the other 
girl like ? ” I asked. 

Miss Liston started slightly ; also she coloured 
very slightly, and she answered, looking away from 
me across the lawn, 

“ I haven’t quite made up my mind yet, Mr. 
Wynne.” 

With the suspicion which this conversation 
aroused fresh in my mind, it was curious to hear 
Pamela laugh, as she said to me on the afternoon 
of the same day, 

“Aren’t Sir Gilbert and Audrey Liston funny? 
I tell you what, Mr. Wynne, I believe they’re 
writing a novel together.” 

“ Perhaps Chillington’s giving her the materials 
for one,” I suggested. 

“ I shouldn’t think,” observed Pamela in her dis- 
passionate way, “that anything very interesting 
had ever happened to him.” 

“ I thought you liked him,” I remarked humbly. 

“ So I do. What’s that got to do with it ? ” 
asked Pamela. 

It was beyond question that Chillington enjoyed 
Miss Liston’s society ; the interest she showed in 
him was incense to his nostrils. I used to over- 
hear fragments of his ideas about himself which he 
was revealing in answer to her tactful inquiries. 

258 


A THREE- VOLUME NOVEL 

But neither was it doubtful that he had by no 
means lost his relish for Pamela’s lighter talk ; in 
fact, he seemed to turn to her with some relief; 
perhaps it is refreshing to escape from self-analysis, 
even when the process is conducted in the pleas- 
antest possible manner ; and the hours which Miss 
Liston gave to work were devoted by Chillington 
to maintaining his cordial relations with the lady 
whose comfortable and not over-tragical disposal 
was taxing Miss Liston’s skill. For she had defi- 
nitely decided on her plot — she told me so a few 
days later. It was all planned out ; nay, the scene 
in which the truth as to his own feelings bursts on 
Sir Gilbert (I forget at the moment what name 
the novel gave him) was, I understood, actually 
written ; the shallow girl was to experience nothing 
worse than a wound to her vanity, and was to turn 
with as much alacrity as decency allowed to the 
substitute whom Miss Liston had now provided. 
All this was poured into my sympathetic ear, and 
I say sympathetic in all sincerity ; for, although I 
may occasionally treat Miss Liston’s hterary efforts 
with less than proper respect, she herself was my 
friend, and the conviction under which she was 
now living would, I knew, unless it were justified, 
bring her into much of that unhappiness in which 
one generally found her heroine plunged about the 
end of Volume II. The heroine generally got out 
all right, and the knowledge that she would enabled 
the reader to preserve cheerfulness. But would poor 
little Miss Liston get out? I was none too sure of it. 

259 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


Suddenly a change came in the state of affairs. 
Pamela produced it. It must have struck her that 
the increasing intimacy of Miss Liston and Chil- 
lington might become something other than “ fun- 
ny.” To put it briefly and metaphorically, she 
whistled her dog back to her heels. I am not 
skilled in understanding or describing the artifices 
of ladies; but even I saw the transformation in 
Pamela. She put forth her strength and put on 
her prettiest gowns; she refused to take her place 
in the seesaw of society, which Chillington had re- 
cently established for his pleasure. If he spent an 
hour with Miss Liston, Pamela would have noth- 
ing of him for a day; she met his attentions with 
scorn unless they were undivided. Chillington 
seemed at first puzzled — I believe that he never re- 
garded his talks with Miss Liston in other than a 
business point of view — but directly he understood 
that Pamela claimed him, and that she was pre- 
pared, in case he did not obey her call, to establish 
a grievance against him, he lost no time in mani- 
festing his obedience. A whole day passed in which, 
to my certain knowledge, he was not alone a mo- 
ment with Miss Liston, and did not, save at the 
family meals, exchange a word with her. As he 
walked off with Pamela, Miss Liston’s eyes fol- 
lowed him in wistful longing; she stole away up- 
stairs, and did not come down till five o’clock. Then, 
finding me strolling about with a cigarette, she 
joined me. 

“ Well, how goes the book ? ” I asked. 

260 


A THREE-VOLUME NOVEL 


“ I haven’t done much to it just lately,” she 
answered in a low voice. “ I — it’s — I don’t quite 
know what to do with it.” 

“ I thought you’d settled ? ” 

“ So I had, but — Oh, don’t let’s talk about it, 
Mr. Wynne ! ” 

But a moment later she went on talking about it. 

“ I don’t know why I should make it end hap- 
pily,” she said. “ I’m sure life isn’t always happy, 
is it?” 

“ Certainly not,” I answered. “ You mean your 
man might stick to the shallow girl, after all ? ” 

“ Yes,” I just heard her whisper. 

“ And be miserable afterward ? ” I pursued. 

“ I don’t know,” said Miss Liston. ‘‘ Perhaps 
he wouldn’t.” 

‘‘ Then you must make him shallow himself” 

“ I can’t do that,” she said quickly. “ Oh, how 
difficult it is 1 ” 

She may have meant merely the art of writing — 
when I cordially agree with her — but I think she 
meant also the way of the world, which does not 
make me withdraw my assent. I left her walking 
up and down in front of the drawing-room windows 
— a rather forlorn little figure, thrown into distinct- 
ness by the cold rays of the setting sun. 

All was not over yet. That evening Chillington 
broke away. Led by vanity, or interest, or friend- 
liness, I know not which — tired maybe of paying 
court (the attitude in which Pamela kept him), and 
thinking it would be pleasant to play the other part 
261 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


for a while — after dinner he went straight to Miss 
Liston, talked to her while we had coffee on the 
terrace, and then walked about with her. Pamela 
sat by me; she was very silent; she did not appear 
to be angry, but her handsome mouth wore a reso- 
lute expression. Chillington and Miss I^iston wan- 
dered on into the shrubbery, and did not come into 
sight again for nearly half an hour. 

“ I think it s cold,” said Pamela in her cool quiet 
tones. ‘‘ And it’s also, Mr. Wynne, rather slow. 
I shall go to bed.” 

I thought it a little impertinent of Pamela to 
attribute the ‘‘ slowness ” (which had undoubtedly 
existed) to me, so I took my revenge by saying, 
with an assumption of innocence purposely and ob- 
viously unreal, 

“ Oh, but won’t you wait and bid Miss Liston 
and Chillington good-night ? ” 

Pamela looked at me for a moment. I made 
bold to smile. 

Pamela’s face broke slowly into an answering 
smile. 

“ I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Wynne,” 
said she. 

No? ” said I. 

‘‘ No,” said Pamela, and she turned away. But 
before she went she looked over her shoulder, and, 
still smiling, said, ‘‘ Wish Miss Liston good-night 
for me, Mr. Wynne. Anything I have to say to 
Sir Gilbert will wait very well till to-morrow.” 

She had hardly gone in when the wanderers came 
262 


A THREE-VOLUME NOVEL 


out of the shrubbery and rejoined me. Chillington 
wore his usual passive look, but Miss Liston’s face 
was happy and radiant. Chillington passed on into 
the drawing-room. Miss Liston lingered a mo- 
ment by me. 

“ Why, you look,” said I, “ as if you’d invented 
the finest scene ever written.” 

She did not answer me directly, but stood look- 
ing up at the stars. Then she said in a dreamy 
tone, 

‘‘ I think I shall stick to my old idea in the 
book.” 

As she spoke, Chillington came out. Even in 
the dim light I saw a frown on his face. 

‘‘ I say, Wynne,” said he, “ where’s Miss Myles ? ” 

‘‘ She’s gone to bed,” I answered. ‘‘ She told me 
to wish you good- night for her, Miss Liston. No 
message for you, Chillington.” 

Miss Liston’s eyes were on him. He took no 
notice of her; he stood frowning for an instant, 
then, with some muttered ejaculation, he strode 
back into the house. We heard his heavy tread 
across the drawing-room ; we heard the door 
slammed behind him, and I found myself looking 
on Miss Liston’s altered face. 

“ What does he want her for, I wonder ! ” she 
said, in an agitation that made my presence, my 
thoughts, my suspicions, nothing to her. “ He said 
nothing to me about wanting to speak to her to- 
night.” And she walked slowly into the house, her 
eyes on the ground, and all the light gone from her 
263 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


face, and the joy dead in it. Whereupon I, left 
alone, began to rail at the gods that a dear silly 
little soul like Miss Liston should bother her poor 
silly little head about a hulking fool ; in which re- 
flections I did, of course, immense injustice not only 
to an eminent author, but also to a perfectly hon- 
ourable, though somewhat dense and decidedly con- 
ceited, gentleman. 

The next morning Sir Gilbert Chillington ate 
dirt — there is no other way of expressing it — in 
great quantities, and with inflnite humility. My 
admirable friend Miss Pamela was severe. I saw 
him walk six yards behind her for the length of the 
terrace ; not a look nor a turn of her head gave him 
leave to join her. Miss Liston had gone upstairs, 
and I watched the scene from the window of the 
smoking-room. At last, at the end of the long 
walk, just where the laurel-bushes mark the begin- 
ning of the shrubberies — on the threshold of the 
scene of his crime — Pamela turned round suddenly 
and faced the repentant sinner. The most inter- 
esting things in life are those which, perhaps by 
the inevitable nature of the case, one does not hear; 
and I did not hear the scene which followed. For 
a while they stood talking — rather, he talked and 
she listened. Then she turned again and walked 
slowly into the shrubbery. Chillington followed. 
It was the end of a chapter, and I laid down the 
book. 

How and from whom Miss Liston heard the 
news which Chillington himself told me without a 
264 


A THREE-VOLUME NOVEL 


glimmer of shame or a touch of embarrassment 
some two hours later, I do not know ; but hear it 
she did before luncheon ; for she came down, ready 
armed with the neatest little speeches for both the 
happy lovers. I did not expect Pamela to show 
an ounce more feeling than the strictest canons of 
propriety demanded, and she fulfilled my expecta- 
tions to the letter ; but I had hoped, I confess, that 
Chillington would have displayed some little con- 
sciousness. He did not ; and it is my belief that, 
throughout the events which I have recorded, he 
retained, and that he still retains, the conviction 
that Miss Liston s interest in him was purely liter- 
ary and artistic, and that she devoted herself to 
his society simply because he offered an interesting 
problem and an inspiring theme. An ingenious 
charity may find in that attitude evidence of 
modesty; to my thinking, it argues a more subtle 
and magnificent conceit than if he had fathomed 
the truth, as many humbler men in his place would 
have done. 

On the day after the engagement was accom- 
plished Miss Liston left us to return to London. 
She came out in her hat and jacket, and sat down 
by me ; the carriage was to be round in ten minutes. 
She put on her gloves slowly, and buttoned them 
carefully. This done, she said, 

“By the way, Mr. Wynne, I’ve adopted your 
suggestion. The man doesn’t find out.” 

“Then you’ve made him a fool?” I asked 
bluntly. 

27 


265 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“ No,” she answered. “ I — I think it might hap- 
pen though he wasn’t a fool.” 

She sat with her hands in her lap for a moment 
or two, then she went on in a lower voice : 

“I’m going to make him find out afterward.” 

I felt her glance on me, but I looked straight in 
front of me. 

“ What, after he’s married the shallow girl ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Miss Liston. 

“ Rather too late, isn’t it? — at least, if you mean 
there is to be a happy ending.” 

Miss Liston enlaced her fingers. 

“I haven’t decided about the ending yet,” said 
she. 

“ If you’re content to be tragical — which is the 
fashion — you’ll do as you stand,” said I. 

“ Yes,” she answered slowly, “if I’m tragical, I 
shall do as I stand.” 

There was another pause, and rather a long one; 
the wheels of the carriage were audible on the 
gravel of the front drive. Miss Liston stood up. I 
rose and held out my hand. 

“ Of course,” said Miss Liston, still intent on her 
novel, “ I could — ” She stopped again, and looked 
apprehensively at me. My face, I believe, ex- 
pressed nothing more than polite attention and 
friendly interest. 

“ Of course, ’ she began again, “ the shallow girl 
— his wife — might — might die, Mr. Wynne.” 

“ In novels,” said I, with a smile, “ while there’s 
death, there’s hope.” 


266 


A THREE-VOLUME NOVEL 


“ Yes, in novels,” she answered, giving me her 
hand. 

The poor little woman was very unhappy. Un- 
wisely, I dare say, I pressed her hand. It was 
enough ; the tears leapt to her eyes ; she gave my 
great fist a hurried squeeze — I have seldom been 
more touched by any thanks, however warm or elo- 
quent — and hurried away. 

I have read the novel. It came out a little while 
ago. The man finds out after the marriage; the 
shallow girl dies unregretted (she turns out as badly 
as possible) ; the real love comes, and all ends joy- 
fully. It is a simple story prettily told in its little 
way, and the scene of the reunion is written with 
genuine feeling — nay, with a touch of real passion. 
But then Sir Gilbert Chillington never meets Miss 
Liston now. And Lady Chillington not only be- 
haves with her customary propriety, but is in the 
enjoyment of most excellent health and spirits. 

True art demands an adaptation, not a copy, of 
life. I saw that remark somewhere the other day. 
It seems correct, if Miss Liston be any authority. 


267 


THE DECREE OF DUKE DEO- 
DONATO 


“It is a most anxious thing to be an absolute 
ruler,” said Duke Deodonato, “but I have made 
up my mind. The Doctor has convinced me ” — 
here Dr. Fusbius, Ph.D., bowed very low — “ that 
marriage is the best, noblest, wholesomest, and 
happiest of human conditions.” 

“ Your Highness will remember — ” began the 
President of the Council. 

“My Lord, I have made up my mind,” said 
Duke Deodonato. 

Thus speaking, the Duke took a large sheet of 
foolscap paper, and wrote rapidly for a moment or 
two. 

“ There,” he said, pushing the paper over to the 
President, “ is the decree.” 

“ The decree, sir ? ” 

“ I think three weeks afford ample space,” said 
Duke Deodonato. 

“ Three weeks, sir ? ” 

“ For every man over twenty-one years of age in 
this Duchy to find himself a wife.” 

“Your Highness,” observed Dr. Fusbius with 
deference, “ will consider that between an abstract 

proposition and a practical measure ” 

269 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“ There is to the logical mind no stopping-place,” 
interrupted Duke Deodonato. 

“ But, sir,” cried the President, ‘‘ imagine the 
consternation which this ! ” 

“ Let it be gazetted to-night,” said Duke Deodo- 
nato. 

“ I would venture,” said the President, ‘‘ to re- 
mind Your Highness that you are yourself a bach- 
elor.” 

“ Laws,” said Duke Deodonato, ‘‘ do not bind 
the Crown unless the Crown is expressly men- 
tioned.” 

“ True, sir ; but I humbly conceive that it would 
be pessimi exempli ” 

“ You are right ; I wiU marry myself,” said Duke 
Deodonato. 

“ But, sir, three weeks ! The hand of a Princess 
cannot be requested and granted in ” 

“ Then find me somebody else,” said Deodonato; 
“and pray leave me. I would be alone;” and 
Duke Deodonato waved his hand to the door. 

Outside the door, the President said to the Doc- 
tor, 

“ I could wish, sir, that you had not convinced 
His Highness.” 

“ My Lord,” rejoined the Doctor, “ truth is my 
only preoccupation.” 

“ Sir,” said the President, “ are you married ? ” 

“ My Lord,” answered the Doctor, “ I am not.” 

“ I thought not,” said the President, as he folded 
up the decree and put it in his pocket. 

270 


THE DECREE OF DUKE DEODONATO 


It is useless to deny that Duke Deodonato’s de- 
cree caused considerable disturbance in the Duchy. 
In the first place, the Crown lawyers raised a puz- 
zle of law. Did the word “ man,” as used in the 
decree, include “ woman ”? The President shook 
his head, and referred the question to His High- 
ness. 

“ It seems immaterial,” observed the Duke. “ If 
a man marries, a woman marries.” 

“ Ex vi terminorum^^ assented the Doctor. 

“But, sir,” said the President, “there are more 
women than men in the Duchy.” 

Duke Deodonato threw down his pen. “ This 
is very provoking,” said he. “ Why was it al- 
lowed? I’m sure it happened before I came to 
the throne.” 

The Doctor was about to point out that it could 
hardly have been guarded against, when the Pres- 
ident (who was a better courtier) anticipated him. 

“We did not foresee that Your Highness, in 
Your Highness’s wisdom, would issue this decree,” 
he said humbly. 

“ True,” said Duke Deodonato, who was a just 
man. 

“ Would Your Highness vouchsafe any explan- 
ation ? ” 

“ What are the Judges for ? ” asked Duke Deo- 
donato. “ There is the law — let them interpret it.’' 

Whereupon the Judges held that a “ man ” was 
not a “woman,” and that although every man 

must marry, no woman need. 

271 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 

“It will make no difference,” said the Presi- 
dent. 

“ None at all,” said Dr. Fusbius. 

Nor, perhaps, would it, seeing that women are 
ever kind, and in no way by nature averse from 
marriage, had it not become known that Duke 
Deodonato himself intended to choose a wife from 
the ladies of his own dominions, and to choose her 
(according to the advice of Dr. Fusbius, who, in 
truth, saw little whither his counsel would in the 
end carry the Duke) without regard to such ad- 
ventitious matters as rank or wealth, and purely 
for her beauty, talent, and virtue. Which resolve 
being proclaimed, straightway all the ladies of the 
Duchy, of whatsoever station, calling, age, appear- 
ance, wit, or character, conceiving each of them 
that she, and no other, should become the Duch- 
ess, sturdily refused all offers of marriage (although 
they were many of them as desperately enamoured 
as virtuous ladies may be), and did nought else 
than walk, drive, ride, and display their charms in 
the park before the windows of the ducal palace. 
And thus it fell out that when a week had gone 
by, no man had obeyed Duke Deodonato’s decree, 
and they were, from sheer want of brides, like to 
fall into contempt of the law and under the high 
displeasure of the Duke. 

Upon this the President and Dr. Fusbius sought 
audience of His Highness, and humbly laid before 
him the unforeseen obstacle which had occurred. 

“Woman is ever ambitious,” said Dr. Fusbius. 

272 


THE DECREE OF DUKE DEODONATO 

“Nay,” corrected the President, “they have seen 
His Highness's person as His Highness has ridden 
through the city.” 

Duke Deodonato threw down his pen. 

“This is very tiresome,” said he, knitting his 
brows. “ My Lord, I would be further advised on 
this matter. Return at the same hour to-morrow.” 

The next day, Duke Deodonato’s forehead had 
regained its customary smoothness, and his manner 
was tranquil and assured. 

“ Our pleasure is,” said he to the President, “ that, 
albeit no woman shall be compelled to marry if so 
be that she be not invited thereunto ; yet, if bid- 
den, she shall in no wise refuse, but straightway 
espouse that man who first after the date of these 
presents shall solicit her hand.” 

The President bowed in admiration. 

“ It is, if I may humbly say so, a practical and 
wise solution, sir,” he said. 

“ I apprehend that it will remedy the mischief,” 
said Duke Deodonato, not ill-pleased. 

And doubtless it would have had an effect as al- 
together satisfactory, excellent, beneficial, salutary, 
and universal as the wisdom of Duke Deodonato 
had anticipated from it, had it not fallen out that, 
on the promulgation of the decree, all the aforesaid 
ladies of the Duchy, of whatsoever station, calhng, 
age, appearance, wit, or character, straightway, and 
so swiftly that no man had time wherein to pay his 
court to them, fled to and shut and bottled and 
barricaded themselves in houses, castles, cupboards, 
273 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 

cellars, stables, lofts, churches, chapels, chests, and 
every other kind of receptacle whatsoever, and 
there remained beyond reach of any man, be he 
whom he would, lest haply one, coming, should ask 
their hand in marriage, and thus they should lose 
all prospect of wedding the Duke. 

When Duke Deodonato was apprised of this 
lamentable action on the part of the ladies of the 
Duchy, he frowned and laid down his pen. 

‘‘This is very annoying,” said he. “There ap- 
pears to be a disposition to thwart Our endeavours 
for the public good.” 

“ It is gross contumacy,” said Dr. Fusbius. 

“ Yet, remarked the President, “ inspired by a 
natural, if iU- disciplined, admiration for His High- 
ness’s person.” 

The decree is now a fortnight old,” observed 
Duke Deodonato. “ Leave me, I will consider 
further of this matter.” 

Now even as His Highness spoke a mighty up- 
roar arose under the palace windows, and Duke 
Deodonato, looking out of the window (which, be 
it remembered, but for the guidance of Heaven he 
might not have done), beheld a maiden of wonder- 
ful charms struggling in the clutches of two halber- 
diers of the guard, who were haling her off to prison. 

Bring hither that damsel,” said Deodonato. 

Presently the damsel, still held by the soldiers, 
entered the room. Her robe was dishevelled and 
rent, her golden hair hung loose on her shoulders, 
and her eyes were full of tears. 

274 


THE DECREE OF DUKE DEODONATO 


“ At whose suit is she arrested ? ” asked Deodo- 
nato. 

“ At the suit of the most learned Dr. Fusbius, 
may it please Your Highness.” 

‘‘ Sir,” said Dr. Fusbius, ‘‘it is true. This lady, 
grossly contemning Your Highness’s decree, has 
refused my hand in marriage.” 

“ Is it true, damsel ? ” asked Duke Deodonato. 

“ Hear me. Your Highness ! ” answered she. “ I 
left my dwelling but an instant, for we were in sore 
straits for ” 

“ Bread ? ” asked Deodonato, a touch of sympathy 
in his voice. 

“ May it please Your Highness, no — pins where- 
with to fasten our hair. And, as I ran to the mer- 
chant’s, this aged man ” 

“ I am but turned of fifty,” interrupted Fusbius. 

“ And have not yet learnt silence ? ” asked Deo- 
donato severely. “ Damsel, proceed ! ” 

“ Caught me by my gown as I ran and ” 

“ I proposed marriage to her,” said Fusbius. 

“ Nay, if you proposed marriage, she shall marry 
you,” said Deodonato. “By the crown of my 
fathers, she shall marry you. But what said he, 
damsel ? ” 

“ May it please Your Highness, he said that I 
had the prettiest face in all the Duchy, and that he 
would have no wife but me; and thereupon he 
kissed me; and 1 would have none of him, and I 
struck him and escaped.” 

“ Send for the Judges,” said Duke Deodonato. 

275 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“ And meanwhile keep this damsel, and let no man 
propose marriage to her until Our pleasure be 
known.” 

Now when the Judges were eome, and the 
maiden was brought in and set over against them 
on the right hand, and the learned Doctor took his 
stand on the left, Deodonato prayed the Judges 
that they would perpend carefully and anxiously of 
the question — using all lore, research, wisdom, dis- 
cretion, and justice — whether Dr. Fusbius had pro- 
posed marriage unto the maiden or no. 

“ Thus shalt Our mind be informed, and we shall 
deal profitably with this matter,” concluded Duke 
Deodonato. 

Upon which arose great debate. For there was 
one part of the learned men which leant upon the 
letter, and found no invitation to marriage in the 
words of Dr. Fusbius; while another part would 
have it that in all things the spirit and mind of the 
utterer must be regarded, and that it sorted not 
with the years, virtues, learning, and position of the 
said most learned Doctor to suppose that he had 
spoken such words, and sealed the same with a kiss, 
save under the firm impression, thought, and con- 
viction that he was offering his hand in marriage; 
which said impression, thought, and conviction 
were fully and reasonably declared and evident in 
his actions, manner, bearing, air, and conduct. 

“ This is very perplexing,” said Duke Deodonato, 
and he knit his brows; for as he gazed upon the 
beauty of the damsel, it seemed to him a thing un- 
276 


THE DECREE OF DUKE DEODONATO 


natural, undesirable, unpalatable, unpleasant, and 
unendurable, that she should wed Dr. Fusbius. 
Yet if such were the law — Duke Deodonato sighed, 
and he glanced at the damsel ; and it chanced that 
the damsel glanced at Duke Deodonato, and, see- 
ing that he was a proper man and comely, and that 
his eye spoke his admiration of her, she blushed; 
and her cheek, that had gone white when those of 
the Judges who favoured the learned Doctor were 
speaking, went red as a rose again, and she strove 
to order her hair and to conceal the rent that was 
in her robe. And Duke Deodonato sighed again. 

“ My Lord,” he said to the President, ‘‘we have 
heard these wise and erudite men ; and, forasmuch 
as the matter is difficult, they are divided among 
themselves, and the staff whereon we leant is 
broken. Speak, therefore, your mind.” 

Then the President of the Council looked ear- 
nestly at Duke Deodonato, but the Duke veiled 
his face with his hand. 

“Answer truly,” said he, “without fear or fa- 
vour; so shall you fulfil Our pleasure.” 

And the President, looking round upon the com- 
pany, said : 

“ It is. Your Highness, by all reasonable, honest, 
just, proper, and honourable intendment, as good, 
sound, full, and explicit an offer of marriage as hath 
ever been had in this Duchy.” 

“ So be it,” said Duke Deodonato; and Dr. Fus- 
bius smiled in triumph, while the maiden grew pale 
again. 


277 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 

And,” pursued the President, “it binds, con- 
trols, and rules every man, woman, and child in 
these Your Highness’s dominions, and hath the 
force of law over all.” 

“ So be it,” said Deodonato again. 

“ Saving,” added the President, “ Your High- 
ness only.” 

There was a movement among the company. 

“ For,” pursued the President, “ by the ancient 
laws, customs, manners, and observances of the 
Duchy, no decree or law shall in any way whatso- 
ever impair, alter, lessen, or derogate from the high 
rights, powers, and prerogatives of Your Highness, 
whom may Heaven long preserve. Although, 
therefore, it be, by and pursuant to Your High- 
ness’s decree, the sure right of every man in this 
Duchy to be accepted in marriage of any damsel 
whom he shall invite thereunto, yet is this right in 
all respects subject to and controlled by the natu- 
ral, legal, inalienable, unalterable, and sovereign 
prerogative of Your Highness to marry what dam- 
sel soever it shall be Your pleasure to bid share 
your throne. Hence I, in obedience to Your High- 
ness’s commands, pronounce and declare that this 
damsel is lawfully and irrevocably bound and affi- 
anced to the learned Dr. Fusbius, unless and until it 
shall please Your Highness yourself to demand her 
hand in marriage. May what I have spoken please 
Your Highness.” And the President sat down. 

Duke Deodonato sat awhile in thought, and there 
was silence in the Hall. Then he spoke: 

278 


THE DECREE OF DUKE DEODONATO 


“ Let all withdraw, saving the damsel only.” 

And they one and all withdrew, and Duke Deo- 
donato was left alone with the damsel. 

Then he arose and gazed long on the damsel ; but 
the damsel would not look on Duke Deodonato. 

“ How are you called, lady? ” asked Duke Deo- 
donato. 

“ I am called Dulcissima,” said she. 

“ Well-named ! ” said Deodonato softly, and he 
went to the damsel, and he laid his hand, full gen- 
tly, on her robe, and he said, “Dulcissima, you 
have the prettiest face in all the Duchy, and I will 
have no wife but you ; ” and Duke Deodonato 
kissed the damsel. 

The damsel forbore to strike Duke Deodonato, 
as she had struck Dr. Fusbius. Again her cheek 
went red, and again pale, and she said, 

“ I wed no man on compulsion.” 

“Madam, I am Your Sovereign,” said Duke 
Deodonato ; and his eyes were on the damsel. 

“ If you were an Archangel — ! ” cried the 
damsel. 

“Our House is not wont to be scorned of ladies,” 
said Deodonato. “ Am I crooked, or baseborn, or 
a fool?” 

“ This day in your Duchy women are slaves, and 
men their masters by your will,” said she. 

“ It is the order of nature,” said Deodonato. 

“ It is not my pleasure,” said the damsel. 

Then Deodonato laid his hand on his silver bell, 
for he was very angry. 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“ Fusbius waits without,” said he. 

“ I will wed him and kill him,” cried Dulcissima. 

Deodonato gazed on her. 

‘‘ You had no chance of using the pins,” said he, 
“ and the rent in your gown is very sore.” 

Upon this the eyes of the damsel lost their fire 
and sought the floor ; and she plucked at her gir- 
dle, and would not look on Deodonato. And they 
said outside, 

“ It is very still in the Hall of the Duke.” 

Then said Deodonato, 

“ Dulcissima, what would you ? ” 

“ That you repeal your decrees,” said she. 

Deodonato’s brow grew dark ; he did not love to 
go back. 

“ What I have decreed, I have decreed,” said he. 

“And what I have resolved, I have resolved,” 
said she. 

Deodonato drew near to her. 

“ And if I repeal the decrees ? ” said he. 

“ You will do well,” said she. 

“ And you will wed ? ” 

“ Whom I will,” said she. 

Deodonato turned to the window, and for a space 
he looked out. The damsel smoothed her hair and 
drew her robe, where it was whole, across the rent ; 
and she looked on Deodonato as he stood, and her 
bosom rose and fell. And she prayed a prayer that 
no man heard or, if he heard, might be so base as 
to tell. But she saw the dark locks of Deodonato’s 
hair and his form, straight as an arrow and tall as 
280 


THE DECREE OF DUKE DEODONATO 

a six-foot wand, in the window. And again, out- 
side, they said, 

“ It is strangely still in the Hall of the Duke.” 

Then Deodonato turned, and he pressed with his 
hand on the silver bell, and straightway the Hall 
was filled with the Councillors, the Judges, and the 
halberdiers, attentive to hear the will of Deodonato 
and the fate of the damsel. And the small eyes of 
Fusbius glowed, and the calm eyes of the Presi- 
dent smiled. 

“ My Cousins, Gentlemen, and my faithful 
Guard,” said Deodonato, “ Time, which is Heav- 
en’s mighty Instrument, brings counsel. Say! 
What the Duke has done, shall any man undo ? ” 

Then cried they all, save one, 

“ No man! ” 

And the President said, 

“ Saving the Duke.” 

“The decrees which I made,” said Deodonato, 
“ I unmake. Henceforth let men and maidens in 
my Duchy marry or not marry as they vdll, and 
God give them joy of it.” 

And all, save Fusbius, cried “ Amen.” But Fus- 
bius cried, 

“ Your Highness, it is demonstrated beyond cav- 
il, ay, to the satisfaction of Your Highness ” 

“ This is very tedious,” said Deodonato. “ Let 
him speak no more.” 

And again he drew near to Dulcissima, and there, 
before them all, he fell on his knee. And a mur- 
mur ran through the Hall. 

28 281 


COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP 


“ Madam,” said Deodonato, ‘‘ if you love me, 
wed me. And, if you love me not, depart in peace 
and in honour ; and I, Deodonato, will live my life 
alone.” 

Then the damsel trembled, and barely did Deo- 
donato catch her words : 

“ There are many men here,” said she. 

‘‘It is not given to Princes,” said Deodonato, 
“to be alone. Nevertheless, if you will, leave me 
alone.” 

Then the damsel bent low, so that the breath of 
her mouth stirred the hair on Deodonato’s head, 
and he shivered as he knelt. 

“ My Prince and my King! ” said she. 

And Deodonato shot to his feet, and before them 
all he kissed her, and, turning, spoke : 

“ As I have wooed, let every man in this Duchy 
woo. As I have won, let every man that is worthy 
win. For, unless he so woo, and unless he so win, 
vain is his wooing and vain is his winning, and a 
fig for his wedding, say I, Deodonato I I, that was 
Deodonato, and now am — Deodonato and Dulcis- 
sima.” 

And a great cheer rang out in the Hall, and Fus- 
bius fled to the door ; and they tore his gown as he 
went and cursed him for a knave. But the Presi- 
dent raised his voice aloud and cried, 

“ May Heaven preserve Your Highnesses — and 
here’s a blessing on all windows ! ” 

And that is the reason why you will find (if you 
travel there, as I trust you may, for nowhere are 
282 


THE DECREE OF DUKE DEODONATO 


the ladies fairer or the men so gallant) more win^ 
dows in the Duchy of Deodonato than anywhere 
in the wide world besides. For the more windows, 
the wider the view ; and the wider the view, the 
more pretty damsels do you see ; and the more 
pretty damsels you see, the more jocund a thing is 
life ; and that is what the men of the Duchy love — 
and not least Duke Deodonato, whom, with his 
bride Dulcissima, may Heaven long preserve 1 


THE END. 


283 


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